


resistance.

by lithalos



Series: knights of cydonia [1]
Category: Persona 5
Genre: Akechi is a headass: the fic., Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Angst, Blood and Gore, Knight Akechi, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Unreliable Narrator, Witch Akira, mentions of abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-03
Updated: 2018-08-03
Packaged: 2019-06-21 04:17:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 20,759
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15549438
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lithalos/pseuds/lithalos
Summary: “One day, you’ll sit upon the throne,” Akechi remembers hearing, a lie that soothes a bastard child's tears in the night. It's the lie that fuels him and gives him strength, as well as the sweet songbird by his side. He'll take the throne and rise above, all forhissake.





	resistance.

**Author's Note:**

> hey yeah so nothing violent really happens on screen but akira gets kinda fucked up so be warned ab that ig. it's not _that_ violent. just really dark.
> 
> thanks to maru for this brilliant idea that's been killing me slowly for a month.
> 
> and thanks to @/nonnecheri and @/rnoonjelly on twitter for helping me clean this mess up.

_“One day, you’ll sit upon the throne,_ ” Akechi remembers hearing, the lie whispered in the night to scare away nightmares of a vengeful king. He’s too small to understand, really—he tries to wrap his head around the fabricated sweetness of words that could never be true, to comprehend the strained smile that speaks of deceit. He’s too small to understand the bruising and bleeding on a face of forged warmth.

He’s not too small to fear the hands of the king.

He’s not too small to know that when he can no longer hear thumping in her chest, it will never sing again. She is silent. He is not.

Akechi’s wailing draws nearby guards, irritable and frustrated with the cacophony a child brings. They’re prepared for discipline, to put a noisy child in its place—they’re not prepared for blood, cool on the creaky floorboards of their tiny room in the servant’s quarters. For a stolen dagger, sheathed in an unmoving chest; for a smile and tears on a blue face.

For a child grieving, knowing what he’s lost and knowing it’s his fault.

The king barely flinches when he’s told, doesn’t even look at Akechi as he sniffles and wipes his face with dried bloody hands from when he’d tried to put her together again. “Just put him with the other boy for now,” he says with a dismissive wave and indifferent tone. Akechi wants to protest, to ball up his little fists and scream at the hand he knows is responsible but—

He bites his tongue. The throne will be his one day, a lie that brings comfort while he’s swept out of the throne room like trash, thrown into a run down hovel barely attached to the castle like trash.

Grey eyes blink owlishly, red rimmed like his. Another piece of trash; what a pair they must make. And truthfully—the other boy doesn’t look much better from where he’s curled up in the corner with matted, unruly black hair and dirtied, bruised skin. At least the blood on his scraped hands is his own.

The other boy makes no moves to speak, instead opts to observe Akechi as he wipes tear tracks from his face. There’s no real expression on his face, not one Akechi’s learned to read at any rate, just empty examination.

Akechi decides he doesn’t much like the silence—silence, he’s learned, means someone has left him. “Hello,” he says simply.

The boy doesn’t respond, just rests his head on his knees and closes his eyes, humming something Akechi can’t quite hear. At least it isn’t _silent_. The boy’s voice is pretty, he thinks. Like a bird, timidly chirping away in the early morning. So Akechi slides to the floor next to him and listens for hours, right up until the boy’s head rests against his shoulder and the humming is replaced with rhythmic, slow breathing.

Akechi smiles softly and settles in until he, too, dozes right off.

* * *

“One day I’ll sit on the throne,” Akechi says offhandedly over scrubbing the tiles in the grand hall, watching his reflection shift and distort on the marble as soapy bubbles spread with each swipe of his rag. He doesn’t meet his own eyes, pointedly ignores agonizing over features he sees in the king’s smug gaze and self-satisfied expression. Instead, he shifts his eyes to meet grey ones, blinking owlishly at him as the only person he dares call a _friend_ in this god-forsaken castle stares.

After a moment, Akira huffs out something suspiciously close to a laugh, masked as clearing his throat, brushing his unruly black hair from his face with soap-covered hands that drip onto pale skin. “I look forward to the day, _your majesty,_ ” he says with a shit-eating grin.

Akechi flicks water at him. “Asshole,” he mutters, but can’t fight the smile on his face. Akira’s peals of laughter tug at something in his chest, tug a genuine _smile_ onto his face in place of the placid and pleasant one he wears among the other servants—and even in the presence of the king.

“If you do become king…” Akira starts the second his chuckles die down enough to slot words between them. “You know who would make a great court witch?”

“If you’re about to suggest yourself, I’d like to remind you that you nearly set fire to your quarters the other day.”

“ _Nearly!_ ” Akira pouts indignantly, narrowing his eyes. “Only a talented witch would _nearly_ set their quarters on fire!”

Akechi rolls his eyes before turning his attention back to the already sparklingly clean marble he’s polishing. “My apologies, oh great witch. How could I have possibly known someone messing up a basic _summoning_ spell should end with _nearly_ setting the room ablaze?”

He hears Akira’s mouth click shut. Apparently he’s grown tired of arguing.

Akechi hasn’t, however, so he lifts his head to continue his jeering, an easy grin on his face—when he spots the _real_ reason Akira had given up so quickly.

To be quite honest, opulence isn’t something Akechi ever admired; it indicates a lack of confidence, of masking one’s self in glitter and golds and luxuries to hide sickening emptiness and rancid personality. Or, at the very least, that’s what he’s gathered watching the king as he struts about with purpose and self-satisfaction that borders on arrogance. The glimmer of precious stones and of contempt in his eyes always had a way of pinning Akechi to the floor and lancing his tongue to the wall. No matter how he wished to show even a modicum of insolence, he lacked the spine to do so.

“Servant boy,” Shido says as if he’s being forced to regard the insect smeared on the sole of his boot. Akechi grits his teeth; appearances are everything. As if the high and mighty king would heed the bastard child with anything less than displeasure. “What is it you’re doing?”

With a smile he’d practiced for years in the mirror above his washbasin, he replies. “Scrubbing the tile, as you asked.” Even if it was pointless—even if he’d done this just a few days prior on the whims of the king wishing to watch him bow.

Shido clicks his tongue, eyes sliding to Akira, who’s trying to curl into something much smaller than he is. There’s something on his face, something akin to realization. “I don’t recall allowing you to have help.”

“If I may,” Akira pipes up with a voice stronger than he looks and rights his posture. “I’ve finished my tasks for the day and I offered him my help. I see no harm in it.”

There’s a charged silence that falls between them; Akechi knows the mistake Akira just made, knows that he’s locked himself in Shido’s sights with his impudent mouth. His straightened back and tilted chin are simply bait for Shido’s ire—and if the set in Shido’s jaw is anything to go by, it’s wildly successful.

Akira’s _trying_ to anger him. Akechi’s stomach turns at the idea.

“What’s your name?” Shido finally asks in a voice calmer than stone, despite the hellfire of fury boiling in his eyes. Akechi _knows_ the king is aware of _exactly_ who Akira is; this isn't the first time he’s angered the king, but Akechi certainly hopes it may be the last. To incur a king’s wrath is dangerous.

“Kurusu Akira. A witch-in-training.”

The loathing that flickers across Shido’s face at the word ‘witch’ doesn’t pass by Akechi unnoticed, and from the tightened grip Akira has on his rag, he noticed as well. “Well, _boy_ , tell me this—are _witches_ allowed in the grand hall without an escort?”

There’s a loaded question. Akira can either tell the truth, that Akechi had been his escort and place the blame squarely back on the bastard child, or…

“No sir.” Akira’s shaking now, but his eyes are burning with something Akechi can’t help but admire. “I came alone.”

Surprise flits across Shido’s face—clearly he hadn't counted on Akira being too stubborn to sell someone out for his own safety. But it’s gone as quickly as it comes, replaced with disinterest and a wave towards the guards stationed nearby. “You heard the witch—you know what to do with him.” And without even another glance, he continues on his way, as if the two boys covered in suds don’t exist.

Akechi doesn't bother looking after the king as he departs. He’s too busy watching Akira rise on shaky feet and trembles with a lip caught in his teeth and fearful eyes on the guards as they approach. And Akechi lurches to his feet before he can blink and pulls a quivering hand into his own.

“It’ll be okay,” he says hollowly, disappointed with how unconvincing his tone is.

Despite it all, Akira smiles. He’s quaking like a tattered flag in the wind, but he puts on his best smile. “Of course. What’s fifty lashes? I’m almost asleep thinking about it.” When he sees Akechi frown, Akira fakes a laugh. “Don’t make that face. I’ll be back before you know it.”

“You’d better be,” Akechi murmurs, running his thumb across the back of Akira’s hand.

“I will. Just you wait.”

And Akechi did wait. True to Akira’s word, late in the evening he slips into Akechi’s chambers. For a moment, Akechi is relieved; part of him had feared Akira would have simply vanished, buried by a spiteful king determined to pull impertinence by the roots.

He hears laboured breathing and a rhythmic dripping sound in the low candlelight, sees Akira’s silhouette in front of the door—no, slumped _against_ the door—and Akechi’s on his feet in an instant. He grabs the candle and lights as many more on the way as he can, flooding the room with light and sending a sinking chill down his spine.

“Akira…” He whispers, keeping as strong a hold on the candle as possible for fear it may tumble from his grasp as he draws closer. “What did they do to you?”

Akira doesn’t meet his eyes. “Can you… help patch me up?” He mutters with shame colouring his tone. His black hair is slick and matted with sweat and grime, sticking to his pale face that only looks more gaunt as the candles flicker.

Akechi nods, turning to begin drawing a bath he’s sure is needed.

It’s when he’s filled the tub about halfway that he noticed Akira’s still pressed against the door, shaking but making no movements to sit.

“You can come here, you know,” Akechi starts, wincing when Akira flinches. After a moment, Akira pushes himself to stand, takes one step and drops heavily to the ground with a tiny whimper Akechi is sure he isn’t meant to hear. Not with how proud Akira is.

But he’s by Akira’s side in the same amount of time it takes to draw a breath, slinging Akira’s arm across his shoulder. He tries not to feel the anger seething in his stomach as his hands brush against the soaked fabric at Akira’s back and come away red and tacky. Fifty lashes his ass.

It’s slow going closing the distance back to the tub, with Akira almost completely incapable of supporting his own weight and the exhaustion of intentionally grueling chores seeping into Akechi’s own bones. They make it just in time for Akechi to stop the tub from overflowing as he guides Akira to rest on the stool beside it.

“Can you get your shirt off?”

Akira blinks over at him, bleary and unfocused, before shaking his head. Akechi sighs.

“Fine, I can help. Just…” He blows out a slow puff of air. “Don’t curse me, okay? It’ll hurt like hell.”

“I would never,” Akira rasps out weakly.

That’s all the go-ahead Akechi needs; he begins peeling away Akira’s soppy blouse and attempting to tune out the continuous hiss of pain as he does so. The more of Akira’s skin he reveals, the sicker he begins to feel.

“This was more than just lashes,” Akechi spits like it’s poison on his tongue.

Akira doesn’t respond.

Finally, the shirt falls to the ground with an unsettling squelch, leaving just one more article of clothing between Akira and a potential bath. Akechi does his best to keep his eyes from Akira’s marred back, from wounds that were _definitely_ inflicted by blades hidden among the welts and cuts of a whip. There was a time, before he’d learned the virtues of a pleasant mask, when Akechi looked much the same. Covered in blood and wounds with shame tied to each crack of the whip.

He feels like he’s going to be sick.

“We need to get your breeches off,” he says to keep the bile from spilling out instead.

Akira shifts, making moves to stand that Akechi knows won’t work; he catches Akira by the shoulder, taking the brunt of his weight so he can be on his feet. His skin is clammy, sticky with drying blood and sweat and the soap they’d been using earlier.

There was a time when they were smaller, when Akira was clumsy with magic and Akechi clumsy with words, that Akira would chide _him_ for looking this way. When Akira would practice healing spells because he knew Akechi would need them, soothing cuts and bruising with salves imbued with mysticism and hands that Akechi was convinced would only know to heal. Even if it was forbidden for him to use magic without the _king’s_ approval, Akira would do so without hesitation.

But there were days when Akira was caught up in training, unable to be by Akechi’s side when he bled. Akira knew this, and began teaching Akechi to mend his own wounds, teaching him how to pull at the threads of magic in the air around them to stitch himself back together.

As of late, he’s used it far more frequently for _Akira’s_ sake than his own. As they’ve grown older, Akechi’s grown cunning and subversive with his rebelliousness; Akira has only grown angrier. Lashing out knowing it would only lead to lashes in return.

And more often than not, all for Akechi’s sake. Akira takes beatings not for aimless flippancy, but rather—he places himself carefully, intentionally, by Akechi’s side to draw the king’s wrath onto himself.

Akechi hates it.

Akira buries his face in the crook of Akechi’s neck, making a noise that’s a grotesque amalgamation of a laugh and a sob. “I think I should keep my breeches on, Goro.”

“Why?”

There’s something warm and hot dripping onto Akechi’s neck. “You’re going to be angry.”

Akira’s crying; the realization has Akechi’s heart shred itself into tiny pieces. “I’m already angry, but never at you,” he murmurs softly, bringing a hand to brush through Akira’s hair the way he knows can coax the deepest of nightmares to fade. “I could never be angry with you.”

Akira huffs out another pathetic sound, but moves his hands to undo the lacing on his breeches with no more complaints.

At the very least, Akechi finally understands why Akira can barely stand—cuts trail down his thighs, more numerous than stars in the sky and weeping red rivers down Akira’s unnaturally pale skin. And Akira is right; Akechi _is_ angry. But never at him.

And it boils in him, unsightly and festering alongside the rot of years of bottled up fury. It's a nauseating feeling, biting down on the poison blazing fires of vengeance through his veins. But he does. For Akira, he’ll smile with sincerity through it all.

“One day I’ll sit on the throne,” he murmurs gently, turning his head to press lips to matted, disgusting hair. “And you’ll stand by my side. I’ll make it so.”

That gets a chuckle out of Akira; it’s soft and weak. Pitiful, like him. “I look forward to it, my liege.”

Akechi hums, tamping down the enjoyment he feels hearing that from Akira’s lips. “Let’s get you washed up, yes?”

“Please.”

It’s a mostly quiet affair—Akira settles on the stool next to the tub, curled in on himself as if to protect himself from being hurt yet again. Or perhaps out of humiliation; Akira’s the type to always stand tall through his agony. This hadn’t been the first set of lashes he’s received by a long shot, but it _is_ the first to bring him to his knees.

And Akechi stains rag after rag, wiping away as much of the blood, the filth, the grime, as possible. Akira doesn't need to sit in dirtied water with open wounds. _Many_ open wounds.

There’s a particularly nasty cut on his back, though. It’s ugly like the rest of him. “What happened?” Akechi frowns as he lets his fingers trace the wound, ignoring the groan from Akira at his featherlight touch. “This hasn’t happened before.”

Akira is quiet for a while, palms burying his face and hiding his expression entirely. “King’s orders,” comes the response, almost inaudible in how it’s muffled and cracking.

Akechi’s blood runs ice cold in shock and pure, unfettered rage. “ _Shido?_ Why? He’s never cared enough to do anything this…” Words fail him for once, tongue heavy and laden with anger.

Akira finally lifts his head, eyes clearer than they’d been since he’d stumbled through the door. Burning hot and crackling with the defiance Akechi’s grown to associate with him. “He’s trying to break you, you know.” He laughs, empty and chilling. “You know he doesn’t care enough about some insolent _witch_ to order up something special, but if it’s an opportunity to—”

“Don’t say it.”

Silence falls between them, uncomfortable and heavy and unfamiliar as Akira bites his tongue for the first time in his foolish life. He doesn’t need to say it for Akechi to know. Shido had made his offer months ago to no answer, after all. Honestly, it’s a surprise it’s taken him this long to try and force Akechi’s hand. One doesn’t keep a _king_ waiting.

Akechi returns to mopping his rag across Akira’s sullied skin while guilt gnaws its way through his insides. The monotony of the action, the repetition of methodically scrubbing clean one stretch of skin after the next, distracts him from the roiling storm of emotions stinging like acid in Akechi’s throat. Fortunately (for whom?) it doesn’t take long until all that remains on Akira’s skin is weakly weeping wounds, freed from the vile filthiness that had clung to him with vigor. It looks… better, but still rather unseemly.

“Now that I think about it,” Akechi says to break the quiet between them, “perhaps a bath is unwise. I didn’t realise you were…” He gestures weakly.

“A pin cushion?”

“A pin cushion.”

Akira laughs at that, the first genuine one all night, as he pushes himself a bit more upright. "It'll be fine. Besides, I feel..." A grimace flickers across his face as he prods absently at one of the wounds on his leg with his finger. There’s a pensive look to his eyes, almost mournful in a way Akechi is loath to see. "Gross. I just want to forget about this."  
  
Akechi says nothing, feeling the sting of guilt clawing at his chest and stealing the breath from his lungs. He doesn’t trust himself to speak, not now as empty apologies threaten to spill from his lips. Instead, he takes Akira's arm and hefts him up over his shoulder, lifting him enough to help him settle into the bath on his own.

Or at least, that was the plan, but Akira is notorious for subverting expectations.

With a grin sharper than steel, as he settles downwards, Akira fists his hand into Akechi's blouse and tugs, straight into the tub with him.

Akechi yelps as lukewarm water hits his skin, his face—everything, really. And Akira's cackling filling the small washroom, lighter than air and full of the mischief Akechi loves in him, easily outweighs his annoyance.

He is still annoyed, though. "Akira!" He sputters through the water in his mouth, pushing soppy bangs out of his face to glare over at the witch putting on his best impression of innocence. Wide eyes, blank face, the whole nine yards.

"Who, me?"

With a flick of his wrist, Akechi splashes water at Akira, who’s snickering to himself with a self-satisfied grin. "Yes, you."

The smile on Akira's face softens as he sinks further down into the water, wet hands coming to rest on Akechi's cheeks and wiping stray droplets of water from his skin. "I just wanted to stay close to you," he says gently. There's a hint of something else in his voice, almost like regret, but Akechi isn't sure. With each passing day, it grows harder to read Akira and his slowly dwindling range of emotions. "Stay with me?"

And Akechi... he can't say no. He could never say no to Akira. "All right."

When they finally emerge from the cool waters, Akira is _much_ cleaner than he started and with fewer wounds than he entered with—Akechi isn't confident that his limited knowledge of magic can do more than stitch together the smaller of the wounds, unfortunately. And Akira’s sleepy. It's almost endearing how his eyes threaten to slip closed and his words slur with exhaustion. It's definitely endearing how Akira pulls Akechi tight under the covers, burying his face in the crook of Akechi's neck and breathing easier than he has all night.

It's dangerous for Akira to be out of his quarters, even more dangerous for him to sleep in Akechi's bed, but… it's late, he thinks with a yawn. So Akechi will give him this, let him have the small moment of peace. He knows tomorrow will bring everything but, so for now…

Akechi presses a kiss to the crown of Akira's wet head. For now, they can be safe.

* * *

The day Akechi is knighted is bittersweet at best; on one hand, it gives him more freedom, more power—more influence with which to advance his goals. It's the first step in his plans, even if he knows it puts him at the king's mercy for the time being. But that doesn't matter. Soon Shido will be nothing but a story told to scare rowdy children, a cautionary tale of greed and gluttonous power.

It’s an overcast day; fitting, and telling of the future that lies ahead. The paladin’s armour he dons now is heavy, bright silver steel with ostentatious and gaudy engravings of the king’s crest. His cape of driven snow billows behind him like a blizzard, rippling in the wind that threatens to bring storms and thunder.

But he holds his head high; a sizeable crowd has arrived, waiting with bated breaths to see the first knight in years. Akechi nearly smiles at the thought. No matter Shido’s meddling, the endless training and finely tuned skill he’s crafted sets him far above his peers. He’s earned this and more, regardless of Shido’s sneering denials.

The first drop of rain hits his face as he kneels before the king, grinding his teeth and biding his time. By the time droplets flow freely from the sky, he stands tall before a crowd more thunderous than lightning itself.

And he smiles.

It doesn't make the separation from Akira any easier, however. With being knighted comes a change in living arrangements: a spacious room in the east wing of the castle, outfitted with sleek marble fixtures and linens of fine quality. Not _every_ knight is afforded these luxuries, but then again, not every knight is given the task of rooting out rebellion by the king.

Akira, however, remains in the servant's quarters in relative squalor. He doesn't seem _too_ put out by that really—something that confuses Akechi to no end. How could he not wish for something more, wish for finer things in life? How could he be content with poverty when he deserves anything but? When he takes the throne, Akechi thinks, he'll shower Akira with the most exquisite things imaginable. By Akechi's side, he'll be beautiful and spoiled rotten as much as he'd like.

It's a bit more difficult for Akira to _be_ by Akechi's side at the moment, however; some guards will look the other way for a witch sneaking through the castle in the dead of night. Dangerous, really, for Akira to take such risks only to _occasionally_ be able meet with Akechi. It's heartwarming until Akira is caught by a guard too loyal to Shido and too close to the rules to let him off easy—Akira avoids his quarters for the next few weeks.

Perhaps that's for the best; it's safer for Akira in his own room than Akechi's.

He worries, though. Worries that Akira may be lonely without someone to keep him company, without someone to sew his wounds back together for his many, many outbursts of rebellion. By any stretch of the imagination, Akira isn't a social butterfly—most days, he can be found in the library and records rooms, buried in scroll after scroll of spells or alchemical recipes. Akechi loves finding him there. It's quiet and secluded, easy to wile away hours engrossed in debates over magical theories and small snacks Akechi brings. (Not that Akechi ever wins—magic isn't something he was trained in. When the topic devolves into politics and ethics, however, they're evenly matched. Even if Akira may be naive and idealistic, at the very least Akechi is granted the opportunity to simply hear him speak.)

Today is a bit different. In a good way, oddly enough.

Akechi's on patrol in the courtyard—one of the few days Shido has him assigned to routes and not simply studying up on poisons and ways to make a dagger a bloodless weapon. He's glad for it; the sun is out and warming his armour, a pleasant heat as he strolls about with a lazy hand on the hilt of his sheathed longsword and cape billowing in the gentle breeze.

For a moment he pauses, eyes closed and letting the wind toy lightly with his bangs and cool his skin. For a moment, he listens to the raucous chorus of chattery birds and faint hums of life from the city. For a moment, he feels at peace.

Then he hears it; a familiar laugh, as warm as the sun on his face and lighter than the breeze playing with his hair. Akechi opens his eyes, following the sound deeper into the courtyard, deeper into patches of carefully planted flowers and towering trees.

In the middle of beautiful flowers of bright crimson and gold, Akira sits in a loose tunic of pure white and dark trousers with a wide and genuine smile that leaves Akechi stunned. Beside him is a girl, laughing and gesturing animatedly, blonde hair loosely pulled into ties at either side of her head. She's dressed as a commoner would, plain blouse and breeches, but Akechi thinks he recognizes her. A witch, like Akira—he's seen them buried in books together at the library before, with hushed discussions of spells and applications. He doesn't recall her name, or if he ever knew it.

And for a while, Akechi stays and simply watches, enraptured by the simple bliss and relaxed cheer Akira displays as he bathes in the sunlight. It’s perplexing, really, how captivated he is by listening to the melodic tones of Akira’s voice as he discusses something _just_ quiet enough with the girl that Akechi can’t quite make out the topic. But it’s pleasing all the same, hearing the rise and fall of his speech, the soft tones that Akechi himself rarely hears nowadays. Not when it tends to be strained by wariness and unease, tainted by Akira always looking over his shoulder for lashes that are all too certain in his proximity to Akechi.

The girl nudges at Akira, blue eyes wide with something akin to the frozen panic of a child with their hand caught in a jar of sweets and focused directly on Akechi. Ah—he supposes he might be imposing and sinister in imperial armours and bearing the king’s crest. Of course a witch would be wary; frankly, so is he when he catches his reflection.

Akira’s eyes slide over to him, prepared to be guarded or perhaps even outright impudent. Instead, he blinks in surprise, grey eyes nearly blinding in the bright sunlight streaming through leaves and clouds. Finally, he raises a hand and waves, a tender smile on his face that leaves Akechi breathless.

After a moment, he unfreezes himself enough to wave back, and Akechi smiles and retreats. It's good Akira has someone to keep him company—even better it's someone like him.

* * *

It comes quickly, his first act of defiance and the first crack of the whip.

Akechi has grown skilled in dealing death under Shido's orders, even better at doing so silently and without suspicion. And for the first time, he uses that to his own advantage to undermine and uproot the line of succession right out from underneath Shido's smugly upturned nose.

Though perhaps it was foolish of him to assume Shido wouldn't just _know_ —of course with this last move he must know he's forced Akechi's hand yet again after having kept him on the defensive for _years_ . Of _course_ a caged mutt would bite the hand that feeds it when that same hand has tightened the chains around its neck. So naturally, Akechi expected retaliation.

He simply wasn't expecting the extent to which Shido was willing to go to snuff out the embers of rebellion.

The first hints something was amiss should have come from being summoned to the throne  room at all—Akechi is meant to be in the shadows, to _stay_ in the shadow of Shido's throne. The less he's seen the better, and Akechi doesn't mind that anyways. The shadows give him freedom, even under Shido's thumb.

The absurd extravagance of golds and jewels and fine linens lining the walls are familiar as ever, seeing his reflection in the polished marble floors spattered with blood… is not.

He had been a _fool_ to think retribution wouldn't follow.

Akechi can’t meet Akira’s gaze, not right now. Not when Akira is knelt on the floor and blood on his face and buried hopelessness in his eyes. Not when it is so directly Akechi’s fault.

"How many does that make?" Shido asks impassively, but Akechi can sense the imperiousness lurking ominously in his tone.

The whip in Akechi's hand feels heavier than the blade at his hip ever has—and arguably, with more blood on it than the cold steel has ever seen. The weight of it grounds him, as much as it possibly could in the surreal haze Akechi finds himself in. "Fifty," he replies with a voice of ice and the strength of a mouse.

Akira flinches at the sound of his voice, flinches away. Small, curled in on himself with arms tucked in and a tremble to his kneeling form. He looks pathetic—something Akechi wishes he never had to see. From here, towering over him, Akechi can't see his face.

Perhaps that's for the best.

"Good," Shido replies, as if that matters. "I have some meetings to attend to. By the time I return—" he looks pointedly at the bloodied marble, as if that wasn't _his_ fault "—I expect this room to be spotless. Someone of even _your_ stature can manage that, yes?"

Akechi isn't sure if that's a dig at his bastard lineage or one aimed at Akira for simply existing; regardless, Akechi is sure to mask how he bristles with a pleasant smile he's perfected. (He misses in his distraction the way Akira turns just enough to see his face, to see as he smiles unaffected with his hands covered in someone else's blood, always someone else’s.)

"Of course," Akechi says with a veneer of affability.

With that assurance, Shido rises and sweeps out of the room, puffed chest and all. And it's quiet once he's gone, a silence echoing along towering marbled walls more deafening than the roars of crowds. It settles on him with more weight than his plated armour, the burden of his actions and the consequences he knows will follow.

The clattering and grating of metal greaves as he kneels beside Akira nearly deafens him. "I'm sorry," he murmurs, reaching a hand to Akira.

Akira flinches away from his touch, face pale but unreadable. And for a moment, Akechi wonders if perhaps reaching out with gauntlets dirtied with Akira's blood was foolish, if perhaps he should have wiped it clean first. He shakes the thought away; Akira would understand why, in time. Akira would understand that Akechi would never hurt him—not willingly, anyways.

This wasn't his fault. Akira would never blame the _whip_ for what the wielder does with it.

"Akira," he says gently, extending a hand again. This time, Akira does take it, though Akechi notes the hesitance in his movements. They rise, Akira shaky on his feet but otherwise able to stand—fifty lashes at this point is mere child's play to him with how often it comes—and for a moment, they simply stand hand in hand. Now that Akechi's gotten him past being afraid, Akira clutches at his hand so hard it may have hurt if not for his soiled gauntlets, white knuckled and pathetic.

"I'm okay," Akira replies with more strength than he's able to stand with, but Akechi can see something in his eyes. He can see something brewing that he never wishes to see on Akira's face:

Despair. Resignation. A peculiar sense of finality.

It turns Akechi's stomach.

Akechi hums a response, eyeing the blood cutting rivers across Akira's scarred skin. "We should probably get you cleaned up before we try cleaning. Wouldn't want to make more of a mess, yes?"

"Please."

Cleaning the floor is considerably easier than cleaning up Akira, especially with all his flinching. Akechi tries not to be offended at Akira’s cowering but can’t help the annoyance that creeps through his veins as he tries—emphasis on _tries_ —to sew him back together. The marble, at least, stays still.

* * *

Akechi is used to being on a leash; it's how his deal with Shido has survived for as long as it has, how _he's_ survived as long as he has. It's as normal as breathing for him, feeling the itch of the noose around his neck as he shifts, the clanging of metal shackles holding him to his grim fate of forever being a lapdog. Breathe in, breathe out—do as he's told.

He hates it. Acting without agency. Being the conduit for someone else's success. He should be used to that, at least, but all it is to him is a bitter taste that never quite leaves his mouth.

With a sigh, he washes the last of the blood from his hands. Someone else's blood, always someone else's. It's been a long, long while since he’s met any resistance bringing death to his father's enemies, and even longer since he's seen his own blood in the mix.

It's unsettling that he's seen _Akira's_ blood more recently than his own, but that's just the nature of his position. The nature of his leash, rather. Shido knows of Akechi's fondness for the witch, and has for quite some time—and has known how to exploit it for just as long. Akechi cares little for his own well being, but for Akira... he'd do anything to keep him safe.

Even if it means getting his hands dirty.

He scrubs a bit harder at his skin until it's red and blossoming with blood from where he's scratched it raw. No matter how hard he tries, it doesn’t rid him of the sick feeling in his stomach.

Even if it means getting his hands _really_ dirty.

Akechi isn't sure how long he spends watching his blood wash down the drain of the sickeningly white marble sink—at least long enough for the water to run clear—when there's a knock at his door. He doesn't remember expecting visitors.

Apprehensively, he approaches the door with his stomach in knots and heart threatening to stop in his chest. Historically, unannounced visitors didn't bode well, for his health or heart. Old scars itch with every thud of his heart as his hand hovers over the knob. Since when did he become such a coward?

"Goro—it's me," comes Akira's muffled voice from behind the door, laced with—panic?

The door is opened faster than Akechi can breathe, Akira tugged in by the collar of his blouse even faster. It's only when they're both safe, behind closed doors once more, that Akechi actually gets a good look at Akira.

He _is_ panicked. Akechi isn’t sure when Akira perfected his impersonation of a sheet, but it’s on full display now.

"What's this about, Akira? You know it's dangerous for you to be in this part of the castle, especially since—"

Especially since Shido can't afford to lose his only leverage. Some days it feels like he keeps Akira safer than his own son. When he isn’t running rivers on his back, anyways.

There's a tense pause as Akira chews his lip, scratching and scratching anxiously at a scar on the back of his hand until Akechi reaches out and grabs it from him. His skin is clammy to the touch, hand trembling in Akechi's hold. Something is _very_ wrong.

"I—" Akira falters, looking on the verge of tears. "Shido appointed a new court witch,” Akira chokes out.

Frankly, Akechi doesn't need Akira to continue. He knows. "He _didn't_."

Tears spill from Akira's eyes as he clenches them shut, shuddering with something Akechi now knows to be fear. "He said it's because of my talents with spacial magic, but you and I both know that isn't true."

They never talk about it, the unspoken knowledge that Akira is kept so tight on a leash to keep Akechi so tight on a leash. It's uncharted territory for them, a topic neither wants to broach but both know it needs to be done. Akechi knows he can't run from this, not anymore. Not with this. "You need to leave. You can't stay in the castle anymore."

Akira chuckles darkly at that, wet and ugly and coming out too close to a sob for Akechi's liking. "I can't. I can't leave." The confusion must have been clear on his face, because Akira tugs the neck of his blouse down enough to reveal—

A collar. A fucking collar.

And for a moment, Akechi can feel his blood boiling like lava in his veins, a flashfire of fury that nearly makes him sick on the spot. He doesn't need to be told that it's enchanted, doesn't need to be told that now Akira is well and truly trapped here with him because of that tiny band of leather. Akira's on a leash now, much the same as him.

It makes him sick.

"He knows you're here then," Akechi murmurs, balling his hands into fists to try and quell the shaking.

"I'm allowed more freedoms—including visiting you." Akira replies, not making eye contact.

A reward, then, for Akechi's continued obedience. One with an underlying threat.

They both know it. Neither says anything.

* * *

Akechi isn’t exactly sure when it happened, really—one day he strolls up to Akira’s quarters  bearing bread and a sweet juice that’s far more expensive than it’s worth but Akira’s been eyeing with a watering mouth. It’s as much as an apology as he can manage for his extended absence, for his lack of visits as of late. With all of the ‘errands’ Shido has been sending him on lately, it’s become increasingly more difficult to slip away from his duties. Perhaps that had been intentional, but he won’t dwell on it.

He isn’t expecting Akira to be up at this hour, isn’t expecting anything beyond sleepy greetings when he knocks upon the door, but as always: Akira subverts expectations. There’s a yelp from behind the door, along with a thunderous clattering noise; Akechi is mere seconds from breaking the damn thing down when it’s flung open to a _very_ awake Akira, mussed hair and half dressed in his court outfit and—

“Is that a scratch?” Akechi asks as he lifts his hand towards a thin, irritated red line across the bridge of Akira’s nose with a frown. And as easy as taking a breath with how much practice he’s had, Akechi swipes his thumb across the imperfection and calls upon threads of magic in the air to stitch torn skin together. When he pulls his hand back, Akira’s skin is unblemished once more, if a bit pink.

“Oh, yes—thanks,” he stammers, eyes boring holes into the doorframe with vigor.

“What scratched you?”

Akira hesitates a moment, refusing to make eye contact. “I just—I bumped into the door earlier.” The words are mumbled and uncertain, jittery in their delivery.

He’s hiding something; Akechi frowns. Akira is a _terrible_ liar. “If I didn’t know you have the dexterity of a master thief, I’d be more inclined to believe you.”

With a scrunch to his (now unmarred) nose, Akira finally squints up at him. “I’m not a thief,” he grumbles out, offense colouring his tone.

“Of course not,” Akechi replies. Instead of arguing further, he lifts the offerings in his hands. “I bring food and that drink you like so much. Perhaps we can catch up a bit?”

At the mention of food, Akira immediately perks up, gaze zeroing in on the woven basket in his hands. Then, against Akechi’s expectations—Akira shakes his head emphatically, as if shaking thoughts of temptation from his mind. “No, uh… I already ate?”

There’s a low grumbling that fills the space between their words; Akira’s face goes a dark red as his eyes skirt from Akechi and right back to the doorframe.

“Odd, whatever could that noise have been?” Akechi hums pleasantly. “I could have sworn it was the stomach of a lying little witch.”

Before Akira can respond, a _new_ noise cuts in—a peculiar yowling from within Akira’s quarters. Almost like the whining of an entitled cat, upset at the lack of attention. And from the look on Akira’s face… that’s likely not far off.

“You didn’t.” Akechi groans. Pets are _expressly_ forbidden in the castle walls; keeping one would be excessively foolhardy, even for Akira. _Especially_ for Akira.

Without another word and defeat on his face, Akira steps aside to reveal a black and white cat, sitting regally on the ground. It regards him with unsettlingly intelligent blue eyes, as if its gaze could pierce through his armour to the poison that lie tucked within. Tail flicking back and forth hypnotically, rhythmically with every beat of his heart, eventually it simply decides it doesn’t care and turns away. Bratty little thing.

Akechi sighs. “Of course you did.” There’s no verbal response, just a half-hearted shrug.

Now that the cat’s out of the bag, Akira moves further into the room, an unspoken invitation for Akechi to follow. The door clicks as he shuts it behind him, observing as the cat trots to follow Akira about the room but refuses to approach him. “Don’t mind him,” Akira says as he flops lazily onto his bed, propped up casually on an elbow. “He doesn’t like strangers.”

“The feeling is mutual,” Akechi replies.

The cat says nothing.

* * *

The castle—despite being home to countless guards, servants, witches—is typically rather quiet. It’s almost as if the residents are afraid to breathe, afraid to draw any sort of attention to themselves through noise; even when people _must_ converse, it’s hushed. Muted. Tucked away in secluded corners, as if hiding from sunlight will make their words any softer.

Akechi supposes he understands. The walls are always listening after all, watching with scrupulous eyes. Caution, he thinks, is very wise indeed.

But he hears something echoing in the halls, ringing through the silence. Something that isn’t the ever present murmurs of gossip from servants, at any rate. It’s ethereal, almost dreamlike—notes floating through the air fainter than the pulse of a man who’s throat lay on the floor. It’s enchanting, bewitching Akechi to draw nearer.

A siren song, perhaps. He _should_ be cautious, but in the haze of sweet, melodic tones he can’t muster the will.

When he stops before a familiar door to _listen_ , his breath leaves his lungs. It’s _Akira’s_ voice flowing sweetly from beyond, singing tunes of soft sorrow and ghostly melodies. Truthfully, it’s a language Akechi can’t even begin to understand—perhaps it’s witch’s cant or tongues of a far-off land Akira simply knows—but even without knowing _words_ , Akechi can’t help the way his heart tears and _aches_ in his chest. There’s heartbreak in his voice, anguish that Akechi wants nothing more than to soothe, there’s magic in the tune that bends him to its will.

He reaches a hand to his face, startled when his gauntlets come back wet.

Unwittingly, his mind is dragged back to lullabies murmured in the dark, sung before he was old enough to comprehend the despair in the tune. Of gentle hands and strained smiles and ultimately—blue lips and reddened floors. The melancholy gripping his heart, stealing his breath and leaving a chilled ache, strikes him with icy fear.

Dread and visions of Akira’s lips upturned in a frozen smile and blank eyes, of scarred hands covered in drying blood that’s long since stopped flowing—Akechi knocks once, sharp and powerful. And at once, the singing stops.

Silence settles around him, and somehow… that’s worse.

It takes a moment before the door swings open and reveals Akira’s wary face. Decidedly not blue. Animated, as it breaks into a tiny, warm smile. “Oh, Goro,” he says with a voice laced with melodies, now that Akechi knew to listen for them. “What brings you around?”

He thinks about lying. From just over Akira’s shoulder, he sees a pair of striking blue eyes. Watching him.

“Would you continue singing?” He says instead.

* * *

Breaking away from his obligations isn’t necessarily _easy_ ; it’s toeing a line, one that the slightest slip turns the tightrope beneath his feet into the whip in his hand. Balancing the death of political enemies and enjoying life with the one who makes it worth living without tipping the scales too far out of balance is taxing. Tiring. Difficult especially to do so with a smile and burying the stench of death he’s sure marks him as a corpse from Akira.

But when he does, when he can, Akechi lazes about with Akira by his side. Outside today—they’ve both grown tired of being stuck in a coop, anxious to spread wings and stretch without closed doors and glass windows confining them. So they escaped, far from the castle and deep into the surrounding clearings of flowers and sparse trees. It’s a bit chilly, Akechi supposes as he watches Akira shiver a bit where he lays beside him, but still nice.

The quiet is nice, the clouds lulling him into a sleepiness he only barely manages to fend off. It would be unbecoming for someone of his position to nap in a place like this, to nap beside a witch in ratty clothing, but… He can’t quite help it. Being in Akira’s presence is a salve to his nerves, soothing and tranquil in a way Akechi can’t allow himself to feel elsewhere. Beside anyone else, he’d be wary of the dagger between the ribs; beside Akira, even if the dagger comes, he feels no fear.

His eyes slip closed and he lets out a breath, lets the tension bleed from him. Akechi lets Akira’s presence steady him, smiles as he feels Akira’s hand brush against his face, sighs as it toys with his hair.

There’s a gentle hum, tentative and slow. Akechi’s ears strain to hear it over the whistle of the wind through the trees. Lighter than the breeze, sweeter than the pastries Akira had brought to share. It’s pleasing, dulcet tones floating along between them.

It’s Akira, he realizes once words slip in between mellifluous notes. Gentle and soft, warmer than the clouds blanketing them could ever be. The tune is tender and mellow, unlike the haunting beauty Akechi overheard the other day. Like a lullaby, one of genuine well-wishes and sincerity he can feel buzzing in his bones as his heart slows to a crawl.

Peaceful. Akira’s pockmarked fingers caressing at his face, at his cheeks and smoothing over his lips, is relaxing him in a way he’s not felt for a very long time. It’s odd, really; Akira isn’t normally one to be so tactile, typically keeps his distance to the point of flinching whenever Akechi draws near. Today, as Akechi feels fingertips skim along his eyelids and thread through his hair, he’s quite lucky that isn’t the case.

Something cold and small strikes his face, the prick of a pin on his skin; Akechi’s eyes open to glare at the clouds above, daring them to strike again.

And they do—Akira yelps, song cut off with an offended huff. The strikes come swifter after that, jewels of water decorating Akechi’s steel plate armour, making his bangs stick to his face and Akira… well, perhaps in another life he would be born a cat. He whines pathetically as every drop hits his skin, nose scrunched in displeasure and arm raised in a sad and childish attempt to shield himself.

And Akechi can’t help himself: he chuckles. Akira’s betrayed glare at the sound is adorable rather than intimidating as droplets run down his face and stick in long lashes. “Come here,” Akechi fits between laughs as he rises, extending a hand. There’s a petulant sniff as Akira dithers between being stubborn and wet or going along with whatever Akechi has up his breastplate.

Akira takes his hand, looking rather put out but expectant. A tiny, helpless kitten caught out in the elements for the first time; with a fond smile, Akechi lifts the edge of his cape and holds it aloft, over Akira’s head and protecting him from the attack.

“Oh,” Akira blinks up at the cloth, at his reprieve, with wide eyes.

Akechi shifts it forward slightly, just enough to hide under it as well. “We should find shelter—my cape makes a poor replacement, unfortunately.”

Harmless droplets turn into a torrent, sheets of water pelting the rapidly sodden cloth. But they remain unperturbed; Akira quickly mends his pride and giggles, laughing as he flicks water from his hands onto Akechi as they run. Their haste likely only serves to soak them faster, really. Akechi’s greaves splashing kicks up enough water for the bath he knows he’ll need to warm up later.

A crack of thunder rings out through the sky, a war cry foretelling the onslaught. It’s heavier now, _much_ heavier, and with a sinking heart Akechi realizes they won’t make it back to the castle like this, not without being waterlogged to the point of flogging. If they trek _this_ kind of mess into pristine halls, hell awaits them inside as much as outside.

So he spies the next best thing: the large oak on the outskirts of the courtyard. Nudging at Akira is all it takes for him to understand, and with a nod they dash over to relative safety.

Akechi’s wringing the buckets of water from his ruined cape when he hears Akira’s giggling again—he turns, a curious look on his face as Akira shakes water from his hair like a dog. “What’s so funny?”

Akira sloughs off his tunic, squeezing buckets from it with a grin; Akechi fights to keep his eyes on the silly smile on Akira’s face, not the numerous and hideous marks on his skin. “Oh, nothing,” he replies innocently. It isn’t _believable_ by any stretch of the imagination. “Simply that we may be stuck here a while.”

“I’m failing to see how that’s humorous,” Akechi says with a frown.

There’s a thoughtful hum as Akira brushes stray droplets of rain from his chest. “Whether you like it or not, you’re getting the day off.” He grins lopsidedly at Akechi. “All thanks to a bit of bad luck.”

Akira’s right on both accounts—it is spectacularly bad luck to be caught out like this, to be unavailable for summons and incapable of carrying out his duties. Akechi simply hopes it doesn’t fall upon Akira to pay for his mistakes.

“I don’t suppose you can use any magic to get us out of this,” Akechi groans.

Oddly enough, the smile slips from Akira’s face. His eyes dart just over Akechi’s shoulder, wary and uncertain; he follows the gaze to the torrents of rain beyond their respite. “It’s limited,” he replies finally, looking a bit sick. “But it would be unwise for me to cast here.”

That’s strange. Akechi isn’t sure he’s heard Akira speak like that before; he shrugs and begins undoing the fastenings of his armour. Perhaps it’s because Akira is without his staff, without all of his enchantments. Naked, for all intents and purposes.

Akechi eyes his bare, defaced torso. Naked literally and figuratively. “Is your shirt dry?” He asks drily, hoping for Akira to return to a more proper state.

All he gets is a withering stare in return.

* * *

“Please don’t make this any more difficult than it has to be,” Akechi sighs boredly, watching as the man scrabbles away. A sick, caged mutt, really—biting at his hands as he tries to put it out of its misery. He’s crying, an ugly affair with snot and broken sobs that almost sound like pleas. It’s unbecoming, especially from someone who signed his own death warrant by betraying the king at all.

The man is babbling now, chanting out apologies and promises woven together in the same breath, hands clasped in prayer to a god who’s long gone. None of it matters; Akechi can’t change his fate, not that he’s too inclined to. Anyone who willingly associates with Shido, anyone who deals under the table with the devil, forfeits their right to apologies.

Akechi draws his rapier. He can make it look as if bandits ransacked the place—there’s too much blood already to use poison without arousing suspicion.

The man’s blubbering reaches a crescendo, before cutting off with a wet gurgle as Akechi’s blade drives through his throat. There’s a sickening whistling as air rushes to mix with blood, singing a tune of death Akechi grows tired of hearing.

And then silence. Akechi still hates the silence the most.

He shucks the shell of a man off his sword with disgust, pulling a cloth from his satchel to wipe away the blood. Unsightly. Akechi hates dirtying his sword with the blood of cowards.

It’s when he’s turning to leave when something catches his eye; there’s a small glimmer between the man’s rigid fingers. Despite himself, despite the overbearing urge to leave, Akechi draws nearer, kneeling beside the corpse with a passing curiosity.

Clenched in hands now covered in blood, a birdcage of silver. Pretty, he thinks idly.

And another day, another death of one of Shido's enemies. Akechi feels he should bristle at the thought that he's playing right into Shido's hands, that with each death of a political enemy or common dissenter he only grows more sure in his iron rule. Perhaps he should even feel guilty at the blood that's permanently stained him red, at the poison that may as well be in his skin for how often he uses it.

He doesn't. Because he's also perfected another weapon: his words.

It was from a young age that he'd understood that if he wove a tapestry of pretty words and glittering complements, he could wring people of their good will. That if he twisted his words like a dagger in the wound, they'd hurt but not bleed in a way that would _truly_ stain his hands. He'd be blameless while infection took root and rotted them from the inside.

Shido could trace his poison, but not his venom.

And Akechi has sunk his teeth into the few unfortunate souls to stand between him and his justice—one of which was unfortunately found hanging from the rafters in the barracks with a note laced with words that Akechi had sewn so carefully into the man's thoughts with a needle of pleasant smiles and destabilizing words. A few were paranoid, jumpy in the halls and crying when they thought no one could see.

The greatest satisfaction, though, is the lines on Shido's face as he watches his inner circle crumble around him like a castle of sand, washed away by the slightest _lick_ of water. His towers of ivory and blood will come crashing down around him, Akechi will make sure of that.

But for now—

He knocks on Akira's door, a wrapped weight in his satchel lightening his heart. For just a while, he wants to forget. To let it go before taking up the sword again.

The door swings open after a moment, revealing Akira looking more casual than Akechi is used to seeing—the perks, or perhaps curse, of being court witch outfitted with a sleek coat of fine linens and stitched with enchantments and finely tailored, well-fitting clothes. Whenever Akira stands next to the king, he looks as if he belongs—refined, and regal with threads of gold and crimson and eyes of steel. He looks heavenly: an angel who fell to earth and belonged only in the nicest fineries and the most beautiful of jewels, yet would still outshine all of them.

Now, though, he's simply wearing plain breeches and a dark and loose blouse, frayed at the edges and coming apart at the seams and exposing more of his skin than would be proper—Akechi drags his gaze to sleepy eyes and messy black hair and a bleary look of confusion. It's cute, how almost helpless he appears. Even though Akechi knows Akira could blast him into next week if he wanted.

Despite it being a purely political move, Akira _does_ belong as the court witch. Akechi isn't sure he's ever seen someone so talented with so many types and schools of magic. Or seen someone able to make it look so enticing.

Perhaps he's the devil. Akechi doesn't mind, not when he sees a lazy smile spread across Akira's face that's brighter than the courtyard at midday.

"Morning," Akira hums, stepping aside to let Akechi in.

Akechi rolls his eyes, glancing out the window to the courtyard at midday. "Fashionably late for morning, as always."

Akira's laugh is light but laden with the gravels of sleep. "I'm always awake for the witching hour, you know this."

"You know you don't have to be."

There's a dismissive hand-wave as Akira runs a hand through messy hair. As if _that_ would make any headway to taming it. "I like to experiment with spells during the night."

Akechi frowns at that. "You know you need court approval to cast magic."

Another dismissive hand-wave. "You know I get away with a lot of things I shouldn't." Akira's smile turns shy as he pulls Akechi's gauntlet-heavy hands into his own; it isn't the first time Akechi wishes he could wander about without his armour, if only for the sake of feeling Akira's hands in his own. "Like visiting you."

"If I recall, that is actually what you took lashes for the other day."

Something dark flickers across his face, like the breeze threatening the flame of a candle, but ultimately it passes. "If I take fifty lashes for seeing you, than so be it."

It hurts Akechi's heart to hear that as much as it fills him with a sick elation. "I appreciate the thought, but—"

Akira slaps a hand over Akechi's mouth with a pout. "No. No 'buts.' I'm serious." He pulls his hand away when he's confident Akechi won't argue. "The king may think he can keep us apart with fear, but it isn't so. He's only made it easier for me to see you, really.”

"How so?"

"If he really wanted to keep us apart, he wouldn't have made me the court witch," Akira says solemnly. There's the tiniest hint of an emotion Akechi can't quite place in his voice—the closest he can figure is reluctance. "We're in the same wing of the castle now. Hell, really only a few floors apart."

A noxious voice in his mind starts whispering cautions at those words— _everything_ is by Shido's design. His rise to power, his iron rule, beating down the heretics with a boy with a poisoned smile. Even the calculated destruction of his wayward bastard through careful moves on the chessboard—what's one more piece in his arsenal?

What's a witch to a king?

Both the carrot and the stick, all neatly wrapped up in expensive clothes and made to look like a taste of heaven on this hell of an earth.

Akechi smiles, swallowing down the venom he's become so talented at weaponizing. "You're right. I apologize."

Akira shifts to the balls of his feet to press a light kiss to Akechi's cheek—without the heels of his court outfit, Akechi in his armour easily looms over him. "Don't apologize," he says with an easy smile and a hand playfully tugging at Akechi's tied-back hair. It's too soon when Akira pulls away, head tilted in mild confusion. "What brings you here, though? I would have thought you'd be off doing… knight… things."

Akechi smiles at that. "I was given the day off." Mostly because Shido was too furious at the next pillar in his towering walls falling to give any orders—and _definitely_ too angry to lay eyes on his greatest mistake. "And I have something for you."

There's a childlike glimmer in Akira's eyes at the idea of a gift, one that he immediately tries to smother in the hopes of appearing aloof. He's cute like this, Akechi thinks fondly. "Oh? Food again, I hope."

Akechi snorts. "Hardly. You know where the dining hall is."

There's a wrinkle in Akira's nose as he pouts again. "Then what?"

For a moment, Akechi hesitates. He's not even sure why; he can't place why the thought of giving everything and more to Akira fills him with guilt. Frankly, he doesn't want to analyze it, either. It's a thought he'll ignore, whether or not it festers.

He pulls the wrapped parcel from his satchel instead of lingering on reluctance, pressing it into Akira's hands without even a glance to the scars on his skin. Instead of dwelling on the sour taste his nerves have left, he replaces it with a sweet smile.

Confusion is an adorable look on Akira's face, childish curiosity in his eyes as he pulls at the string tying the paper closed and pulls apart the parchment.

His face goes white for a moment, shock in his gaping expression and wide eyes; trembling hands pull a necklace of silver and obsidian from the packaging. Simple, yet complex—a simple chain inlaid with tiny bits of precious black gems and complex filigree covering them. A birdcage, really: flowery metal hiding jewels to protect them from dangers outside. Or perhaps, to keep them caged within and holding them close.

"I thought of you," Akechi murmurs. _My little songbird_ , he almost says.

And for a long, long moment, Akira is speechless. His fingers brush against the metal, featherlight against exquisite metalwork and stones. Wide eyes convey his disbelief, unblinking as if it will simply disappear from one moment to the next. Then finally, Akira is able to tear his gaze away, blinking up at Akechi with misty eyes and surprise.

"Where did you… get this?" he says with a hushed voice, eyes slipping back to the necklace. "It's enchanted—this must have been—how did you—"

Akechi sweeps Akira's unmanageable bangs away from his face with a gentle hand, reveling in the way he doesn't flinch. "I found it at that witchery shop you like to gaze at from afar," he replies smoothly. "And as for the cost—don't trouble yourself with that. My earnings as a knight far exceed what I need."

It takes a moment before Akira is able to form a coherent response that isn't just opening and closing his mouth like a fish. "Goro… this is beautiful. Thank you."

Akechi hums softly, pulling the necklace from Akira's hand to hang it at his throat and noting with pride that it does exactly as he'd hoped—the thin leather band marking Akira as Shido's chess piece is beautifully masked by lovely jewels that _still_ can't compete with Akira. Akechi clasps it around his neck, watching with pride as Akira lifts a hand to press his fingers to the jewelry at the hollow of his throat.

Akira doesn't miss the significance, as expected; he smiles wryly, eyes on the floor in a mixture of awe and shame. "You noticed, then."

"Of course I did." It wasn't hard—the usually proud Akira had simply shut himself away and it was all because of that infuriating strip of leather.

Akira deserves more than to be on the inside peering out, watching the courtyard from a cage of self-loathing and humiliation. He should be on display, standing tall and proud. And, preferably, by Akechi's side.

There's a smile softer than Akechi's seen in a long, long while on his face. "Thank you," he says with a voice softer than silk and filled with a sweet and pure happiness. It's a small thing, (yet presumably ludicrously expensive, Akechi will admit,) but seeing Akira light up for the first time since he's started counting scars fills Akechi with something… odd. Satisfaction, maybe? Or admiration?

Whatever the case, when they spend the day lazing away in the sunlight streaming from the window, close and warm with each other in their arms—Akechi doesn't miss the way Akira keeps running his hands across his throat with a mixture of disbelief and relief.

Akechi smiles.

* * *

Akechi was in the courtyard when the summons came; he’d been enjoying the sun, enjoying relative peace in a veritable hell, when Shido’s personal guards approached. At first, his stomach sank, but now—now, his heart is in his throat and his entrails lay on the ground for all the peace he still holds. Shido’s sneer pins him in place, lances him to the wall.

Akira had fallen, collapsed before the one man he never bowed to, during his court duties. Ill, most likely; Akechi himself feels sick.

“Next time,” Shido crows, clearly relishing in Akechi’s stumbling on the chessboard. “Take better care of your things.”

Walking to Akira’s quarters is a bit of a blur. Perhaps that’s because he’s running, or maybe his mind ground to a halt the second Shido opened his damnable mouth. Or maybe, it’s how misty his eyes have gotten, leaving undignified salty tracks on his face as the thunderous clanging of armour flying down the halls echoes around his skull.

But it doesn’t matter—Akechi cares very little of his appearance. All that matters is Akira.

He doesn’t bother to knock upon Akira’s door; he flings it open with the force of a lover scorned, kicking it shut behind him without a care as he rushes into the room. There’s no response from Akira, nothing beyond a weak, pitiful whimper from where he’d been dumped unceremoniously upon his bed. No quick quips, no songs. Silence.

And he looks like death had found him early, shook hands as it paled his skin so far it’s nearly translucent. Sweat beads on his face, bleeding into the miserable tears, bleeding into the blood dripping from his nose and catching at the corner of his mouth. Akira doesn’t open his eyes, doesn’t seem to notice Akechi had entered and really—if it weren’t the unsettlingly quick rise and fall of his chest as he struggles to breathe, Akechi would be worried he’s already sailed the river Styx.

Akechi is by his side in the time it takes to breathe, brushing the cool metal of his gauntlets across Akira’s face. He bites back his hysteria when Akira can only manage a small, broken whine in return. Even without being able to place a hand to his forehead, Akechi knows the fever Akira’s burning would give hell a run for its money. “Akira?” he tries, knowing it’s futile.

Really, he shouldn’t be disappointed when there’s only a paltry groan in response, shouldn’t even be surprised that Akira doesn’t even open his eyes. But he is.

With a sigh, Akechi begins the tedious task of removing his armour, undoing fastenings as he flits his gaze about the room for rags or a change of clothes he’ll have to wrestle Akira into. What his eyes settle on, ultimately, is a basket of sweets he’d given Akira just yesterday—or rather, the sad remains in the form of an empty basket littered with crumbs.

Akechi huffs out a sigh. Damn Akira and his sweet tooth.

He sets that thought aside along with his breastplate, making a messy pile of armour he knows he’ll regret later in favor of pulling a waterskin from his belt. “Come on, I need you to drink some of this,” Akechi murmurs, more to himself than the sick little songbird he’s perched next to. It doesn’t even stir, Akira doesn’t even stir, barely managing to choke out a noise Akechi can only interpret as affirmation.

Akira once was too proud to be coddled when he was sick and is _definitely_ too proud to fall before a king he won’t even bow to. Now, Akira simply lays helpless as Akechi pours water saved for a rainy day down his throat. There’s a choking noise as he sputters, blood and saliva dribbling from his mouth as he struggles to swallow. It’s revolting to watch, even more so when Akira lets out a high-pitched wail that spatters the disgusting mess on Akechi’s cheek. Akechi frowns, wiping it from his face as if it may stain him red.

And Akira’s _thrashing_ now, with more strength than someone as sick as he should possess, emitting a chorus of ghastly howls. His voice is strong—too strong, laced with unholy tones as he weeps, babbles, sobs. Broken words, broken voice, but still melodic in a way that’s distinctly inhuman. A shiver darts down Akechi’s spine, his ears ring with the force of celestial chants, his heart races as Akira’s fussing grows louder—

Silence falls between them, broken rhythmically with Akira’s whistling breaths.

Right up until Akira’s eyes go wide, dazed and glazed while his hand flies up to press insistently at his mouth. Akechi doesn’t need to be told twice; he retrieves the washbucket and sets it next to Akira with a repulsed grimace. There goes the water.

“Let’s try this again, shall we?” he says with a voice shakier than he’d like.

It takes a few tries. By the time he gets Akira to swallow the water without spitting it back up like a petulant child, his waterskin carries little more than echoes. He’s gotten Akira propped up on pillows, popped open the buttons on his sweat soaked court clothes, and slightly more lucid. It’s an accomplishment, considering.

“Are you feeling any better?” Akechi asks placidly, wiping a damp rag across the amalgamate of fluids on Akira’s face, if for no other reason than to get the blood off. Blood is a bad look on him, honestly. Akira offers a faint hum in response, less than the cries of the damned, but still nowhere near conversational; Akechi sighs. “All right, sit up a bit. You need to get out of those clothes.”

Another hum, this time closer to a whine. Brat. Raising a brow is all it takes to bully Akira into compliance. He slouches forward, looking as if doing something like that had taken his entire reserves of energy. He’s disgusting, slick and clammy and covered in his own blood and spit and bile—his court robes aren’t much better, honestly. Akechi’s nose scrunches as he pries the second skin off.

“Cold,” Akira grumbles, sounding exactly as conscious as one could expect. His voice is scratchy and quiet, torn up by the haunting cries from before. And for a moment, Akechi laments the songs he won’t hear fall from Akira’s lips for a while. Mourns the loss, albeit temporary, of his little songbird.

It’s an odd feeling, akin to when he was much smaller and standing before a broken toy. He laments the comfort of knowing it was there, rather than the actions that brought about the loss. Akechi isn’t sure he likes it, the sinking in his stomach, the weight that _should_ be guilt but isn’t.

So he does what he does best: he ignores it. Akira will understand, in time.

* * *

There are very few times that Akechi can remember Akira being outside—for the most part, he’s hovelled up in his room or the library, sometimes the throne room as an accessory to the king with bruises on his face that makes Akechi’s blood boil. It’s very few times that Akira lounges out in the sun like a lazy cat, soaking up the warmth as it illuminates the exhaustion on his face and fresh purpling on his exposed skin.

Today… is _almost_ one of those days. When searching for him in his usual hideaways doesn’t work, Akechi is almost concerned. Almost fearful he’s done something wrong, and Akira is paying the price. And as a last-ditch effort, he strolls out to the courtyard with a sinking stomach and dwindling hope.

Akira stands stoic and still, surrounded by flowers wilting with the changing of the seasons and head turned towards the sky. The sun reflects off of uneasy grey eyes, highlighting the telltale marks of weariness on almost sallow skin and carving the shadows of a frown. Even like this, he’s beautiful, hauntingly so, captivating and lovely in ways that steal Akechi’s heart.

But he’s still—too still.

“Akira?” Akechi calls slowly, deliberately. And Akira still doesn’t move. He tries again. “Are you all right?”

There’s a tiny ripple of emotion across his face, unguarded and startlingly honest as his brows furrow. “I thought it was supposed to be sunny all day,” he murmurs quietly, so much so Akechi nearly misses it.

Akechi turns his eyes to the cloudless, blue sky.

* * *

"I just don't see the need," Akechi grits out, trying desperately to maintain his typically rock-steady composure. There's resentment worming holes through his chest, acidic as it burrows right through common sense and decency. Normally, he can keep his displeasure under wraps, close to the chest and festering beneath the surface but never visible. He can mask it with disarming smiles and charming words.

With Shido… that proves difficult. At best.

"You're not required to know the reason," Shido replies. Under the surface of apathy and pretension lies threats of outrage, of impatience with teeth the size of a kingdom and strength of an army. Cold calculation lurks within narrowed eyes and in thinly pressed lips. "Just get it _done_."

Akechi is nothing if not stubborn, at the very least. He smiles. "I wonder how the people would feel about their king playing executioner with dissenters? There's already quite a bit of unrest after that witch nearly took her own life and the exposure of that duke's rampant crimes… I wonder, how will your _rule_ survive that?"

Shido is quiet a moment, but the expression on his face clearly belies not consideration but, rather, the coldest of fury. The kind Akechi has grown to _truly_ fear as it illustrates within the capability of cruelty. It’s too still—Akechi doesn’t realize he’s holding his breath until his lungs begin burning.

It's unsettling and ominous, leaving him with the weight of the knowledge he's insulted a _king_ , regardless of his opinions on the matter.

“How indeed?” Shido says after an eternity of silence, voice calm and steady, but Akechi can see wheels turning in his head as he sounds out the words. “You speak boldly for someone who has much to lose.”

Akechi doesn’t dignify that with a response; he sweeps out of the throne room with long strides, face twisting into an unsightly grimace as greaves thunder against shining tiles. The grinding of his teeth does nothing to ground him in his anger, his rage a blight on his manufactured geniality. The wrath of those scorned is something Shido should have come to fear long ago, long before Akechi cursed the world with his presence.

He nearly misses piercing blue eyes and a flicking tail in the hall just outside, nearly misses how it watches him leave. _Nearly_.

Kneeling beside Akira’s little furball, Akechi huffs with exasperation. “Did Akira let you out?” He asks, knowing it won’t respond. “He knows that’s dangerous. For him _and_ you.”

The cat allows him to scratch behind its ears for just a moment before scampering off with a tiny growl, leaving Akechi alone once again.

* * *

It’s afternoon, just after Akira typically rises for the day, when Akechi knocks upon his door. A habit now, really; Akechi brings cheeses and breads and sweet juice that has Akira drooling, right as the sun peaks in the sky. They eat and converse, seamless and peacefully intimate, before they are forced to part ways as their duties entail. The bright spot in Akechi’s otherwise dreary and bloodstained days is always his subdued moments with Akira, the lazy and sleepy laden smile getting him through the day and through the ribcage of another dissenter.

When Akira opens the door, there is no smile, just ugly creases on his face as it pulls into a frown. Akechi mirrors it perfectly—this wasn’t what he expected.

“Akira, good morning,” he tries to say jovially, but it comes out more like his longsword is firmly up his backside. When all he receives is a blank stare, he continues. “I bring a loaf of sourdough—freshly baked. Care to join me for a meal?”

Akechi expects Akira to say yes. It’s routine at this point, asking is simply a formality. But as always… Akira subverts expectations.

“Ah, not today,” Akira replies, looking dodgy as he averts his eyes and shifts from foot to foot. He’s wringing his hands, digging the nails into unsightly scars and marking the skin over and over again. An old nervous habit of his; there was a time when Akechi would grab his hands from him and soothe him until he ceased trembling and could offer a smile in return. That was before Akira began flinching from his touch. Nowadays, extending his hand only serves to make it worse.

“May I ask why not?”

There’s a moment where Akira doesn’t say anything, only broken by the yowling of his mangy cat from within his quarters. “I seem to have lost my appetite in the night. I’m sorry you came all this way.”

It doesn’t _appear_ to be a lie; Akechi knows Akira’s sleep has been uneasy as of late, plagued with nightmares he won’t share but will shake with the force of until he weeps. It’s the only time Akira lets Akechi hold him, too dazed to recoil away from his hands. Though perhaps this one was worse than usual—Akira looks pale, or the dark bags under his eyes simply exacerbate it to the point of being noticeable.

Akechi’s frown deepens. “Akira, you must eat. You must keep your strength up,” he presses, insistent and firm.

There’s another noise from the cat at that, almost as if it means to respond; Akechi shakes that thought away. It may _present_ as intelligent, but that’s all it is. A front.

“I—” Akira cuts himself off, eyeing the packaged bread in Akechi’s hands with a ravenous glint in his eyes. He’s hungry, regardless of the lies he spits, but he’s hesitant. Why, Akechi can’t say. “I don’t really… want to eat right now, if that’s all right.”

There’s a stir of annoyance in Akechi’s chest, poisoning his veins with something less than cordial. But he sighs, as sympathetically as he can with frustration pounding through his skull and slinking through his body like sludge. “Of course, I simply wish to keep you in good health. After all, I believe you wouldn’t want a repeat of what happened a few weeks ago.”

At that, Akira’s nose wrinkles and contemplation involuntarily skitters across his face. Just as Akechi could never say no to Akira… “All right. But this better be the good stuff—the bread from that alchemist. Okumura, I think.”

Akechi smiles. “Of course it is, I even helped her bake it.”

There’s a light laugh as Akira shyly steps aside and tugs at his disastrously messy hair. “Oh dear. Should I be concerned? I wasn’t aware you knew your way around an oven.”

“One of my many skills,” Akechi crows, “is my ability to learn. In this case, baking. You have quite the appetite.”

“Can’t argue with that,” Akira relents.

The cat’s eyes are on them as they eat, burning holes in Akechi’s armour and flicking its tail to and fro. For a brief moment, Akechi thinks it looks displeased, perhaps even disappointed. And he laughs the thought away as Akira bites off more than he can chew. It doesn’t matter to him what an _animal_ thinks.

“Do you have duties to attend to today?” Akechi asks in between dainty mouthfuls of bread.

Akira washes his food down with a large swig of water. “Not that I’m aware of, but we both know that changes with the king’s whims.” He makes a face and eyes the glass in his hand with a mix of displeasure and annoyance. “Where do you _get_ this water? It always tastes like a hound has bathed in it.”

Akechi barks out a laugh. “Apologies, that may be the case—I usually retrieve it from the lake after Iwai has released his hunting dogs for the day.”

There’s a cute scrunch to Akira’s nose. “All right… I suppose you _are_ up that early, aren’t you?”

Not by choice; Akechi envies the way Akira sleeps through the day. “I have many duties that must be taken care of in the morning. Routes and the like.”

“I wish you didn’t have to,” Akira hums, looking rather put-out. “I’d like to spend the mornings with you sometime.”

Akechi raises a brow. “Sleeping, I presume?”

Akira swats at him, but doesn’t argue that. “I just… it’s unfair, the workload the king puts on you. You seem stressed.”

Perhaps that has something to do with the rows of corpses leading the way to Akechi’s throne—but he doesn’t say that. “I appreciate the concern, but I can handle myself. This isn’t more than I can handle by any means.”

Akira looks less than convinced, tucking his knees to his chest and resting his chin on them. Like this, he looks much smaller than the man who demands attention and respect in the court. Like this, he reminds Akechi just how vulnerable he really is. “Still. It’s such bullshit.” He huffs. “Maybe one day we won’t _need_ a king.”

At that, Akechi chuckles, nervous but amused. “What an odd thing to say.” Especially to the future king.

“Not odd—think about it! Perhaps the people could rule,” Akira replies, eyes far away. “That way we can’t have another king like Shido.”

Akechi frowns. “How idealistic, but you give people too much credit.” He sets the rest of his bread down; suddenly he finds himself lacking an appetite. “They seek for someone to rule them, to guide them.”

“I disagree.” Akira’s eyes are back on him, focused but unreadable. “I think they seek freedom, but don’t know how to fight for it.”

Akechi rises—he’s a bit unwilling to have this conversation. “Your faith in people astounds me,” he says as he moves to the door. Before he leaves, though, he looks over his shoulder and meets defiant, naive eyes. “I hope that doesn’t bite you, in the end.”

* * *

The amount of jewelry Akira amasses over the course of the next few months is almost comical; every time something manages to catch Akechi's eyes, whether it be hanging in a shop or hanging from the corpse of one of Shido's enemies, he brings it to Akira.

In reality—he'll never say it, but he hopes to bring one jewel to replace every scar across Akira's skin. Even the new ones that form because Akechi slips and reveals too much of his hand at once, or the ones Shido inflicts himself as an outlet for the fury he feels watching his kingdom come crashing down around his head. One jewel to hide away every imperfection marring Akira's otherwise perfect form.

Frankly, it's ridiculous and he knows it. But every time Akira flinches from his touch fearing the crack of the whip Shido makes him hold, Akechi's resolution grows stronger. Each time he recoils from Akechi’s hands that only bear healing magics _Akira_ taught him, not injury—Akechi’s justice is validated.

Regardless of intentions, it has the same outcome: an excess of jewelry. Akira has a preference in aesthetics—dark, and typically simple—so anything Akechi spots, anything that he can spy Akira’s radiance in, he takes. He gives.

It’s silly, Akechi knows it. That doesn’t stop him from knocking upon Akira’s door with yet another parchment wrapped piece in his hands. This one, perhaps, is more of an apology than the others; Akechi can still feel the vibrations of each crack of the whip in his bones, still see Akira’s empty expression as he stands and refuses his help.

In just a moment, the door swings open, and Akira ushers him inside with little fanfare. He looks tired—bags under his eyes, dark and hideous, hair more of an untamed mess than usual and of course—

Akechi wills himself not to look at the bandaging peeking through the holes in Akira’s blouse. It isn’t proper.

“The king isn’t working you too hard, I hope,” Akechi comments as he removes the sword from his side and lets it fall to the ground with a thud that startles Akira into looking his way. It’s a vain hope, Akechi is sure.

“Nothing I can’t handle,” Akira replies evasively. There’s an edge to his tone, one warning Akechi not press the issue.

So Akechi changes the subject. “I brought you something,” he says with his practiced smile and extending the parcel. At once, Akira’s eyes light up. Dimmer than Akechi would like, but it’s something, at least.

“Thank you, my crow,” Akira hums out with a tiny, half smile. There’s a hint of playfulness in his eyes, nearly buried by the exhaustion that had crept into his features, but still there.

“Crow?” Akechi sputters.

At that, Akira chuckles a bit, heavy with weariness. “Yes, _crow_.” His tone is teasing now, simple and masking the sharpness it had carried just moments ago. “You bring me anything that shines, really. Like a crow.”

Akechi’s nose wrinkles, frown etched in his face. “I’d much rather be a dragon, in that case. Perhaps this could be my lair of coins and precious things,” he says with a pointed smile at Akira.

It gets the intended reaction; Akira flushes a pretty pink, laughing awkwardly to mask his pleasure at the words.

"You don't breathe enough fire," Akira replies without meeting his gaze. And really, how can one argue with that?

“I suppose,” he acquiesces. Akechi knows when not to press his luck. If Akira wishes him a crow, than a revolting rodent passing as a bird he’ll be. Anything for Akira. So instead of arguing, he presses the parcel into Akira’s hand insistently, hand lingering on Akira’s for longer than necessary. “Your crow brings you another piece, then.”

Chimes of bells, sweet peals of silvery songs masked as laughter, fills the air. Akira’s smile is more genuine, less weighed down with the weight of the world and responsibilities. It lightens Akechi’s heart, lifts his mood from the perpetual state of dissatisfaction he finds himself in the longer he remains just an observer to the throne. “Thank you,” Akira says, already tugging apart the paper hiding his treasure.

There’s a moment where Akechi isn’t quite sure how Akira feels—it’s quiet, and Akira’s face is blank and impassive, per usual as of late. And for just a moment, Akechi is nervous. Nervous Akira doesn’t like—doesn’t appreciate—the gift. It fills him with a sense of dread, of uneasiness that borders on nausea.

But Akira blinks up at him, eyes wide and sweet, and his worries are long forgotten. “This is…” Akira starts, dumbly hunting for words with all the tact of a spooked horse. “I like this, but—”

“But?”

The jewelry dangles from Akira’s hand; he holds it so delicately, as if he fears it may wither in his hold. It’s a simple piece, much less showy than the others Akechi’s brought in gauntlet clad claws. Silver, simple, an earring chained to an exquisitely made cuff. “I don’t have pierced ears,” he replies with a wry smile.

Finally, Akechi’s raised hackles ease. He rolls his eyes. “We can fix that.” A simple fix really, much more so than the complicated and bloodstained tangles of threads Akechi tries to weave into his victory banners.

Akira catches the look in his eye as he reaches for a sewing needle, notices the way his thoughts drift from the here and now right to the near future he can smell on the breeze. An emotion, one Akechi’s grown to recognize as disapproval as it grows tragically familiar, ghosts across Akira’s face. It’s as familiar as Akira himself now—distant and near foreign, but still _Akira_ enough to be comfortable.

Instead of dwelling on that thought, on lamenting what could have been and what once was, Akechi reaches for a candle nearby. He lifts it to Akira, and without needing to be told, the witch lights it with ease and a tiny flick.

“Thought I needed to have court approval to cast magic,” Akira hums coolly, bitter as he holds the needle in the flame, not meeting Akechi’s gaze. Instead, the flame flickers in his eyes, paling in comparison to the roaring fires he knows Akira holds tight behind masks as polished as his own.

Akechi doesn’t bother faking a laugh; Akira doesn’t seem much in the mood for pleasantries, at the moment. “I can grant court approval at my rank,” he replies instead.

The needle is red-hot when Akira pulls back from the candle. Impossible to touch, and immensely fragile. “And what is your rank? You aren’t with the other knights.”

So Akira has noticed as much. Figures—he’s more clever than Akechi tends to give him credit for. Akira tends to wear the mask of ignorance so well, Akechi himself could never hope to tell honesty from forgery. “I am a knight to the king, a chevalier,” he lies smoothly.

Finally Akira’s eyes return to his, more piercing than the longsword on the floor and the dagger hidden in his belt. Razor-sharp as they peel back layer after layer, skin and lies down to bone. “You’re close to the king, then?” He asks, loaded and heavy with a tone lighter than the implications as he hands the now cool needle to Akechi. “You’d have to be, in order to become chevalier.”

Akechi’s lips purse. “You know that I’m not—I’d never be _close_ with a man like that.”

A dismissive huff falls from Akira’s lips; he turns his head and pulls back unruly black hair with a hand that has seen more than its fair share of sharp edges and pinpricks. It’s clear from the set in his jaw that Akira is unconvinced. Or worse. “This country can do much better.”

“It will.”

Akira doesn’t move, just fixes his gaze on Akechi as he draws close. “No—I don’t mean another king. This country deserves more than one man deciding for all.”

“How noble,” Akechi retorts, bringing the needle to Akira’s skin but no further. “I had forgotten how idealistic you are. And naive.”

“Is it really naive for me to believe people should be allowed to choose their own fate?”

The needle presses in, slower than it should have; Akira flinches, tries to pull away but Akechi pays it little mind. He’s used to it. His hand is steel on Akira’s shoulder, holding him in place and keeping him still. “You cannot change fate,” he replies haughtily.

The needle is through; Akechi withdraws and allows Akira to hang the jewelry. There’s a halfhearted wave from a scarred hand and the reddened, irritated skin is forced to heal around metal. Beautiful, adorned once more as he should be.

“Perhaps not. But we can try.”

* * *

It’s a dance, moving pieces on the chessboard until there’s nothing but two kings staring across a wasteland of empty checkered wood. No pawns, no knights, simply two rightful rulers alone on a battlefield of manipulation. Watching. Waiting.

And Akechi is proud—proud a lowly bastard like him could drag a king down into the filth with him, to stain opulent golds and gems with the blood of illegitimacy. The blood on his hands, the endless corpses lining his road to hell, will all be justified when he uproots the malfeasance that’s polluted the kingdom for far too long. He’ll rise, a phoenix in the ashes of injustice and blight; he’ll rule, Akira in his rightful place by his side.

Akira’s there now, by his side—though, perhaps this is the only occasion which Akechi would rather be alone. He’d prefer to meet Shido’s stare on his own rather than have it flick knowingly to the witch beside him.

“Did you take me for a fool?” Shido starts, looking both begrudgingly impressed and disdainful. A delicate balance, one the king has perfected with flair.

“I don’t know what you could mean,” Akechi replies smoothly. He can feel how tense Akira is by his side, can nearly smell the anxiety as strongly as the expensive wine wafting through the air. And he pays it little mind. “I would never, Your Majesty.”

Annoyance flits across the king’s face, dark and dangerous for one so drunk on power. “Is that so,” he remarks with feigned disinterest. “You’re remarkably loyal. Perhaps I was wrong about someone like _you_.”

Anger simmers in Akechi’s chest; he’s been biding his time, bearing the brunt of the burden of irrefutable justice alone for too long. Every pawn that falls beneath his silver tongue and erodes Shido's fortress, every time he creeps closer to next in line for the throne, Akechi can't help the sense of fulfillment, of _justice_ , that washes over him. And now, it sits before him. The means to the throne, and the one in the way.

“That’s quite an honor,” he grinds out.

A moment passes, a moment of simply staring each other down, of sizing one another up as one wolf would another. But Akechi is calm—he feels no fear. All he does is simply wait; he’s waited this long, a minute or two longer is inconsequential.

“Perhaps we should begin our meal, yes?” Shido says to break the silence, a sharp smile cutting across his face. Akechi hates it, longing for the moment it breaks and realization crashes down upon the foolish king. “Witch—how about you start?”

Akira jumps a bit, seeming to be rather displeased with being addressed. “Oh, no—I couldn’t before Your Majesty,” he babbles, hands toying with the edges of his gloves. His eyes, curiously, are trained right on the flagon of wine sitting between the three of them.

“I insist.” Shido rises, taking the flagon in hand to pour Akira a glass with deliberate movements and a discerning stare aimed on only Akechi.

Akechi simply smiles. Pleasant, blank.

Akira simply frowns. Uneasy, blatantly clear. He lifts the glass to his lips, gaze darting between the king and the floor. Unsure, honestly—Akira is clever enough to smell a trap, but with a direct order from the king, is completely helpless to step around it. So he sips.

Shido laughs, a boisterous, ugly thing. “Have you never had spirits before? Drink.”

There’s a flash of something like defiance in Akira’s eyes as his mouth twitches into a frown around the glass. It’s nearly foreign now, so sparse in its appearance that Akechi is taken off guard. The embers Akira holds tight, curls his hands around to protect from the cruel wind, is a roaring flame once more. It’s breathtaking as much as it is unnerving—Akira’s unending insolence was not something Akechi had accounted for.

But, instead of disobeying as Akechi feared, Akira tosses back the rest of the wine in one long, messy gulp. The thud as he slams the glass back to the table startles both Akechi _and_ the king in turn and for a moment, it’s still.

And the look on Akira’s face, the dare for retribution, says it all: what’s fifty lashes? He isn’t afraid, not in the least. Not of that.

Finally, Shido huffs out a noise too close to a laugh and pours himself a glass of wine with smug assurance. “Perhaps I was wrong about you as well, _witch_.” He says dismissively before taking a long swig. As if Akira is nothing more than a fixture on the wall, to be used as a tool and nothing more; as if Akira is only a pawn on the king’s side of the board, kept playfully out of reach of Akechi and dangled before oblivion just as easily. No matter how often Akechi sees it, Shido’s unwavering depravity and rudeness knows no bounds. Neither does his love of drinks, for that matter.

The king pours himself another glass, then another. Clearly he’d forgotten by the third or so why he’d called for a private, foreboding dinner—Akechi certainly hadn’t. He hadn’t forgotten the distrusting stare he’d been levelled with as the news of the only person ahead of him in the line of succession had fallen. Hadn’t forgotten the invitation, threat more accurately, to a private dinner to discuss contingencies. Hadn’t forgotten the sneer on Shido’s face as he brought Akira in the room as leverage once more.

It’s always the same with the king; subversion and infinite crookedness. Akechi vows to be different.

But the rest of the dinner passes uneventfully—the king puts away the rest of the flagon on his own and falls into predictable stupidity. He becomes jovial, cocky and loud as he drinks, so assured in a false sense of security.

And Akechi bides his time with a smile until dinner is over. Akira loops an arm through his, tugging him in the direction of his chambers with a tiny yawn. The curious look on Akechi's face, the amused smile, prompts Akira to explain. Or try to, at least.

"I need..." He hums thoughtfully. "I'm not sure. I just don't want to be alone right now."

That's fair; Akira has a less than favorable relationship with the king, it's no wonder why anxiety is eating his heart. So Akechi lets himself be pulled into Akira's room, lets Akira tug sleepily at the fastenings for his breastplate. He laughs, swatting away Akira's hands. "I can do it."

Akira hums, a tired and sad sounding noise as he shucks off his own robes. "I'd hope so. I don't imagine sleeping in armour is comfortable."

"No, it isn't," Akechi replies from experience. The crick in his neck and stiffness to his shoulders still haven't subsided, even weeks later. He sets his armour aside, stretching his hands high above his head. (And he doesn't acknowledge, doesn't comment on the way Akira's eyes watch the movement and the way his tunic pulls across the muscles from years of training and wielding a sword thicker than Akira's arms. He preens at the attention, though.)

With a face redder than summer tomatoes, Akira flops onto his bed with a groan. "That was exhausting. I still can't figure out what the purpose of that was."

Akechi sits primly beside where Akira's smashed his face into the mattress, a hand on his chin. "Intimidation, mostly. He was likely trying to assert his power." Trying to assert his rule as king to a bite-happy mutt, more like. Not like he’d tell Akira that, though.

There’s a muffled huff. “It didn’t work. Maybe he should avoid spirits if he intends to strike fear.”

With a calm smile, Akechi pushes at Akira’s shoulder to roll him over and pulls a little package from his satchel. “Well, at the very least his inebriation gave me the opportunity to sneak a few pastries—the kind you like, with the jam filling.”

Akira perks up a bit at that, almost salivating at the mention of sweets but—he shakes his head and throws an arm over his eyes. “Later. I’m exhausted.”

And Akechi frowns. All right then. He pulls out a pastry and pops it in his mouth with a pout. “Are you sure you don’t want a taste?” After the hours he’d slaved making them, Akira would eat them one way or another.

A huff, then Akira peeks out from under his arm with a wry, sleepy smile. “Only if you feed it to me,” he jokes.

There’s an idea—Akechi chews thoughtfully for a moment before leaning over Akira, relishing in the way fatigued grey eyes widen in surprise. He can feel a sly smirk tugging the corners of his mouth, unpleasant and ugly as it cracks the pleasant mask to reveal truths seldom seen, _especially_ by Akira. But it’s there, the leering of a cat who’s cornered the canary.

Akira seems pointedly aware he’s caught, if the dusting of colour on his cheeks is any indication. A lovely shade, a rosy paint across pale skin that whispers life; a colour Akechi knows he’s seen before, but will never tire of. He licks his own lips, tasting sweet berry jam there and watches as Akira’s eyes trace the action. Watches as Akira’s mouth falls open just so and air catches in his throat.

And Akechi presses down, presses his lips against Akira’s with the smile that never left his face. It’s sweet—sweeter than the jam Akira licks from his lips with tentative movements, hasty yet unsure as he pulls Akechi close by the collar of his blouse. Akira’s sweet, too shy to take what he likes; Akechi tugs at his hair, swallowing down the resulting gasp and licking into Akira’s mouth.

At the taste of the jam, potent in Akechi’s mouth, Akira becomes more forceful and selfish. His tongue grazes on Akechi’s teeth, his lips—anywhere that may taste of berries. It’s remarkably bold from Akira, nearly stuns Akechi out of responding, out of running his hands lightly along Akira’s sides and pressing close, ever closer. _Almost_.

The need for air comes sooner than they’d like, but the deep rose red across Akira’s cheeks, his spit-slick swollen lips curled into a bashful smile, has Akechi’s heart light. Akira’s a mess, ruffled feathers and ruffled hair. “Stay?” Akira rasps out, hands tight on Akechi’s hips and pulling him close.

Anything for Akira— “Of course.”

* * *

The news comes the next morning when a knock rouses Akechi from Akira’s side. He realizes a bit late that he’s far from presentable, from proper and put together—but that matters very little. The news has come, knights before him in full, glistening armour bent at the knee and bowing their heads. It isn’t said out loud, not yet, but Akechi smiles. He’s dressed in an instant and out the door even faster, leading the knights falling behind him as a vanguard would—

As a _king_ would.

And he lets himself be pampered by the former king’s handmaidens, lets them drape him in fineries he only ever tasted in far off dreams. As they decorate him with golds and whites and reds as deep as wine, he thanks them. As his cape drags across polished marble like blood, as he kneels to accept a crown and not a sword, he smiles.

As he rises, it’s quiet. The hall is empty, save for knights loyal to the old king who press lips tight and grip the hilts of their swords tighter. To attack as their instincts insist would be treason; to remain still would be complicit.

When they bend, bow before him, Akechi’s smile grows. They know he’s the rightful king—and in time, they’ll grow to be fiercely loyal. He’ll be magnanimous, benevolent in ways Shido could never be. He’ll rule and finally end years of fear, of bloodshed and violence that has stained his own hands.

It’s finally over, he thinks.

And it’s only when the knights are dismissed, when he sits alone on the throne he’s destined for, that the court witch enters. That Akira enters, back straight and a strangely indignant fury alight in his eyes as he’s followed by that damn cat. Crimson gloves grip his staff tight, posture enraged but reigned in as always. Wary in ways Akechi’s only ever seen directed towards Shido and sickens him to see here. It’s the exact _opposite_ of what Akechi expected, honestly.

“ _Your Majesty,_ ” Akira calls with contempt, offering a mockery of a bow. A flourish, comically low. Akira isn’t even _trying_ to hide his anger but what he’s _angry_ about—Akechi isn’t sure. “Excuse my tardiness, I wasn’t aware we were staging a coup!”

There’s a twinge of annoyance in Akechi’s chest; he wrinkles his nose and rises, wishing to be on even fields with Akira. He takes one step forward, one step towards the witch. Akira takes one step back. “This wasn’t a coup,” Akechi replies coolly. And it’s true: there’s too little blood for that. “It was simply the late king’s time to pass.”

“By poison?” Akira laughs and it’s an insult to the beautiful melody of old; it’s derisive, a cutting facsimile of itself. He lifts a hand, cutting off Akechi’s motions to object. “I _know_ it was. Did you think you could fool me?”

“I did what had to be done,” Akechi says instead of offering up lies, another step forward.

Akira looks ready to breathe fire, another step back. “You’re no better than he was.”

In an instant, Akechi has his rapier drawn—an ornamental thing, really, never meant to see blood. But still sharp enough to drive through a heretic’s heart. “Mind your tongue,” Akechi spits in return with narrowed eyes.

This isn’t how this was meant to unfold. Akira was meant to be grateful, meant to be the only one loyal. The only one to remain by his side through thick and thin. They were meant to rule _together_ . Akechi would sit upon the throne and rule with his beautiful songbird by his side, and yet—Akira drives a beak through the hand that intends to help and hold. Akira is _resisting_ , an insolent and foolish bird locked in finely engraved steel thinking it may be allowed to fly away.

Why is Akira _fighting_?

What changed?

“Apologies.” He doesn’t sound apologetic, simply tired. Disappointment on a fundamental level etches onto his face but he doesn’t once look away. As always, his stare is piercing, as if peeling away layers of lacquer from his masks until there’s nothing but unsightly truths underneath. And finally, he looks as if he understands—as if he’s finally scraped away the final layer of paint and sees the whole portrait for the first time. “You’ve changed. I once hoped you’d be different but now I see you’re as poisoned by ambition as the king before.”

The rapier digs into Akira’s throat, pierces the skin until blood bubbles under the blade as Akechi steps forward again. “Shido was unfit to rule. You of all people should know that!”

Even as a tiny red river cuts through his throat Akira doesn’t flinch or retreat, but he looks insulted, face pulling into a dark frown that sullies his pretty features. “Don’t pretend you did this for my sake. Don’t you _dare_ try to use _me_ to justify all the lives you’ve taken.” Indignation corrupts Akira’s silvery sweet voice, tone sanctimonious and dripping with righteous fury.

“I did _all_ of this for you!” There’s a manic note to Akechi’s voice, frenzied as the rapier wavers in his hysteria. “All the blood on my hands, kneeling before an unjust king just to lay in wait—I did this so you could be _free_ from him!”

Pity flickers faintly in Akira’s eyes, along with resignation. “You want to keep me here just as Shido did. No matter who sits upon the throne, I cannot be _free_ as long as there is a king to bow to.” A sigh ringing with finality echoes about the throne room. “I’m taking my leave, Goro. I’m sorry it came to this.”

“I didn’t dismiss you,” Akechi snaps, a petulant child before a pet who is hellbent on running away, who won’t accept a loving hand or freedom from the leash of a cruel owner. Here he stands, trying desperately to keep the canary in his grasp, to keep it safe—only to have bloodied fingers to show for it.

At that, Akira’s eyes go wide. Wide with disbelief and the crackling hellfire of insurgency blazing brighter than Akechi’s ever seen. “I wasn’t _asking_ to be dismissed. I take orders no longer—not from you, not from Shido. I will control my _own_ fate.”

“You’d be a _traitor_ ?” Akechi shrieks, face pulled into a hideous snarl unbefitting of a king. Another step towards Akira, right until the blood oozes continuously beneath his blade. “Why?! _Why won’t you stay by my side?_ ” There’s tears on his face—funny, really. He hasn’t cried in years.

Akira doesn’t look at him anymore. “I grow tired of being forced to follow those who’d bloody their hands out of convenience,” is the only response.

A guttural yell rips from Akechi’s throat, strangled and choked by fury and betrayal. He lowers the rapier, doesn’t even watch as Akira goes. Doesn’t follow. Instead, he leaves the throne room with masks back in place and tears wiped from his face. And he smiles at the nearest guard.

“Ensure the former king’s court witch doesn’t leave the castle grounds—he is hereby declared a deserter and an enemy to the State.”

When they search Akira’s quarters, it looks as if it had been ransacked; linens and clothes are strewn about without care, tiny shards of metal crunch under Akechi’s boot. At first, he pays it little mind; anger is stamping out his rationality rather splendidly, but something glittering catches his eye among the chaos. He kneels, taking fragmented metal bits in hand.

Silver, with little bits of black gems stuck between twisted bits, mangled like a birdcage that’s been cracked open from within. He’s sure if he digs through the mess he’ll find a strip of leather lying about somewhere.

He barely notices the metal digging into his clenched fist until it bleeds.

* * *

Crowds have never been Akechi’s favourite thing—something that has not changed since his coronation, but he has found it’s much more tolerable when revered. Still, even as the throngs of commonors part in awe for him, he feels claustrophobic. Enclosed in a cage of bodies and potential threats, surrounded by smiles that could hide poison beneath teeth and daggers in a warm embrace.

Akechi smiles; it isn’t good to show weakness, to show fear and uncertainty. Even in the most trying times. Even when danger lurks in every nook and cranny.

“Quite the gathering,” he calls loudly, voice brimming with authority and grace. There’s whispers among the crowd as he continues to move forward, towards the centre of the town square, rippling from mouth to mouth until it’s simply indistinguishable noise. “Please, don’t stop on my account.”

Finally, the crowd breaks, revealing what had been cocooned inside. His smile grows, sincere and pleased in ways he’s sure can’t be expressed in words, as he locks eyes with a witch. The witch appears to be alone as he’s swathed in the crowd, but Akechi knows that isn’t true. There’s accomplices lurking within idle chatterers, ones who have protected him before. Ones who will most certainly try to protect him again.

Except they can’t. Not this time. Not even this skilled network of thieves can jailbreak a songbird if it’s trapped in a cage with no lock. One of its own making, Akechi might add.

The witch doesn’t seem bothered in the slightest by his presence, relaxed in posture as he stares blankly with grey eyes. “Glad you could make the show,” he says in a quiet voice that carries power far beyond his kin. It’s been quite some time since Akechi’s been audience to Akira’s insolent nature, but it’s as familiar as the breeze on this cool autumn day.

“I wouldn’t miss it,” he replies with a tilt of his head before pausing dramatically. A show _indeed_. “However—how peculiar a witch would show himself so publicly when magic has been forbidden. One could say this is foolish.”

“Or one could argue hiding magic away behind closed doors is foolish,” Akira retorts. He sweeps a hand, light trailing from his hand and blue flames licking at his red clad fingers. Dazzling, really, as the light blossoms out into spirals of brilliant flowers. They weave between townsfolk, caress at Akechi’s face and play with his cape, warm and inviting and _tempting_. Always tempting, the devil behind the witchcraft, with smiles of saccharine sweetness and eyes of steel. “How could you outlaw something that brings so much beauty and life?”

Akechi snorts at that, waving his hand to shoo away the glittering light toying with his hair. “How could I outlaw something so _dangerous_ , perhaps. Or have you forgotten how many of the kingdom’s knights have fallen to your curses? To the flames you bend to your will?”

The whispering in the crowd stills to deafening silence; Akechi nearly laughs at that. Perhaps these fools trying to uproot his rule had simply forgotten in their single-minded effort that there are many still justly loyal to the king. To Akechi.

Perhaps they had forgotten they were not the only ones to lead a revolution. With his crowning came sweeping changes: increases in wages, fairer sentences for crimes, considerably less murder for speaking thoughts normally kept to the shadows. It is the freedoms Akechi has granted that have allowed this group of revolutionaries to thrive; perhaps it is some of those freedoms he should strip from them, then.

“I was only defending myself,” Akira replies, dropping his magic until they simply stand before one another with no splendid tricks between them. A shame, really—Akira looked positively radiant in the light of brilliantly woven magic. “Or have _you_ forgotten that there’s currently a warrant out for my death?”

“Suspicions of killing the previous king are no light matter,” Akechi says smoothly. It’s a lie so practiced it may as well be truth; if the treasonous witch is out for one king’s head, who’s to say he couldn’t be responsible for another’s rolling? Or, more accurately—being strangled from the inside out with extremely potent poison.

At that, Akira’s eyes narrow. “No trial, then?” He folds his arms. “Is that what you call _justice_?”

This isn’t the kind of discussion Akechi wishes to have with an audience. “You’re still alive, are you not? Clearly I’ve changed my mind.” With a sigh, he steps forward, closer to Akira and relishing in the way Akira indignantly holds his ground. In the years he’s been hiding in the shadows like a coward and trying to overthrow the crown from underground, he seems to have regrown the spine he lost under Shido’s rule.

Akira’s jaw clenches as Akechi draws ever nearer but he never once averts his eyes. Instead, they bore into him, awash with roiling defiance and glittering with contempt. “Oh, is that so? Should I thank you for sparing my life, then? Is praise what you’re seeking for not murdering an innocent man?” A dry laugh, then: “But you’d be familiar with that, wouldn’t you? Murdering innocents.”

If there’s one thing Akechi is proud of perfecting in the few months he’s held the throne, it’s his docile, infallible mask. Talks with diplomats seeking war, driving his blade through the hearts of assassins seeking to do the same, being the beacon of hope in trying times—it’s all strengthened him beyond reason. Strengthened his resolve and persona, all in one fell swoop.

“I seek no praise, simply to arrest someone blatantly breaking the law,” Akechi responds, smile still placid and unbroken. On cue, his knights have slipped through the crowd, encircling the witch in a cage of steel armour and longswords. “Or perhaps you’d like to show these people how dangerous magic can _really_ be? I know my guards are no match for you, but tell me—would your reputation survive murdering those with _families_ in front of the town?”

Akira looks as if he’s considering fleeing, considering fighting his way to safety as his eyes flit from knight to knight. But Akechi knows better than to assume he’d actually _do_ it. This is a trap Akira is trying to get caught in, that much is painfully obvious. Why else would he come crawling from the underbelly of the revolution, emerge from hiding to be so public and ostentatious about breaking the law? Either he’s a fool—and Akechi knows he’s not, despite the airs he puts on—or he’s planning something.

And as expected, Akira relents. “I will not fight,” he says quietly, but distinctly. His eyes, however, betray no surrender. “I will go peacefully.”

Akechi’s smile grows as he nods to the knights and they close in on a foolish, tiny little songbird. Once again, Akira is within his grasp and this time he doesn’t intend to let go.

* * *

There are plenty of things Akechi had changed upon taking the throne—but most importantly, he’d changed what happens deep underground behind stone walls and cell doors. Nowadays, barring extremely serious offenses, they simply stew in their manacles and ruminate on their crimes. Less effective at drawing confessions, yes, but far easier on public opinion.

Akira is a _special_ occasion. Akechi wants him to feel right at home amongst the chains once more and perhaps—there may be a bit of _vindictive fury_ behind the decision, he’ll admit. As his boots strike the stone steps leading downwards and echo along with ghostly wails, as he meanders to the furthest cell with no sense of urgency, he can’t help but feel justified. The man responsible for the death of numerous guards, of betraying his trust and _abandoning him_ , lay just beyond the door with no means of escape and no way to peck disobediently at Akechi’s fingers.

Just Akira, stripped down to compliance and docility.

Akechi closes the door behind him, regarding Akira’s bloodied form with little more than passing disgust. Honestly, he wishes he didn’t have to see his songbird covered in blood. He’s taking whistling, pathetic breaths from where he’s perched on his knees and only held upright by chains tethering his wrists to the ceiling, but even smeared with red—Akechi supposes he’s beautiful.

But he deserves this, he thinks. Nothing but the iron fist of Shido’s old rule had Akira bow; if Akechi were to be _lenient_ with him, it’s certain Akira would simply fly away unfettered. If Akira had simply been obedient in the first place, there would be no need for the whip.

“So…” Akechi begins, taking a knee in front of Akira and tilting his bloodied face up with pristine white gloves. “I’m sorry it’s come to this.”

There’s a gurgling, something Akechi can only interpret as a laugh, bubbling from Akira; blood dribbles from his wryly smiling mouth, revolting and unsightly. “You’re _sorry_?” His laughing spatters blood every which way; Akechi frowns as drops stain his gloves but doesn’t pull away from Akira. What’s done is done, he supposes. He can always replace a pair of gloves. “The only thing you’re sorry about is letting me get away before.”

Well… he’s not entirely wrong. Akechi does lament letting him storm out the throne room without clipping his wings. But that’s not _all_ he’s sorry for. With creased brows and a faint sense of remorse, he lowers his hand to skim across angry open wounds, feeling blood soak into the fine cloth of his gloves and spider web from fibre to fibre. “That’s not true… I _never_ wanted to hurt you.”

There’s disbelief on Akira’s face, contorting his expression into a hideous imitation. “Then what is this?” Akechi is sure if Akira had free use of his hands, he’d gesture to the cuts along his already scarred skin. “If you never wanted to _hurt_ me, why would you _order_ it?”

“It’s the only thing that seems to get through to you,” Akechi replies with annoyance. “I’ve _tried_ talking to you but you seem remarkably unwilling to listen.”

“That’s because the only thing that comes from your mouth is _lies_ ,” Akira hisses in return. “Were you _ever_ honest with me?”

Akechi has to think about that a moment—he’d been so sure Akira would understand _why_ he’s stained his hands so that he’d never given much thought to lying. He’d been so sure Akira would remain by his side, regardless if his words were sweet or rotten. “I… was always honest about how I felt about you,” Akechi murmurs.

Akira’s eyes go wide at that, just for a moment, before he drops his head and matted hair serves as a curtain. “I’m not sure you ever saw me for what I was,” he says simply, voice breaking apart a bit at the edges. “Did you love _me_ , or simply the idea?”

And Akechi isn’t quite sure what to say to that. So much so, in fact, he rises and leaves the cell, leaves the dungeon, leaves the _castle_ , to go sit beneath an old oak tree that’s long since withered away.

* * *

“I have a proposal for you,” Akechi says from the door, chin tilted as he regards Akira with little more than passing regret. Akira barely stirs at the sound of his voice, considerably less alert and aware than he’d been days ago, but that’s to be expected.

He moves closer, kneeling before Akira and slipping off his stainless gloves and pocketing them. At least this way he won't sully them as he brushes at the cuts weeping pitifully on Akira’s skin. There’s only a tiny whimper as he does so, pathetic and weak.

But he smiles, softly. Gently. And begins sewing the wounds with magic. It’s been a long time but—Akechi notes with pride that it comes just as easily to him, as if it had been only yesterday he’d stitched Akira back together again after meeting the hands of the king. As if the past few months were nothing but a lonely, empty nightmare and Akira had never left his side.

Watching as the cuts fade into scars and ease Akira’s breathing puts Akechi at ease. Akira’s trembling—fear, perhaps, or agony with force enough to shake him. Wherever Akechi’s hands brush comes the sharp sting of pain that has Akira weakly flinching away from him until finally, the wound sews shut and brings relief. Freedom from the pain.

“I will pardon you of all charges… if you become my court witch. I will lift the ban on magic, you will be allowed to cast to your heart’s content. What say you?”

Akira lifts his head enough to look at him with dazed, unfocused eyes. Akechi hadn’t wished to force him to submit—frankly, he’d never wanted Akira to be _docile_. Simply obedient. But Akira, as always, forces his hand and subverts expectations.

The real question is—how far until Akira breaks?

Akechi regards Akira for a moment. It’s always been so hard to read him ever since he’d closed himself off, even more so since Akechi’s fallen out of practice. He can’t tell. He can’t tell, even now, if he’s pushed Akira far enough to fall in line.

And that makes him nervous.

**Author's Note:**

> i'd recommend giving this one a couple passes... akechi's doing something kinda shady throughout the fic that seems mundane... :thonking:
> 
> i love akechi dont get me wrong but i wish he'd stop being reduced to misunderstood goth prep....he's more complex than that tbh. anyways come yell at me on twitter @/lithalos k bye


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